


Halimah Potter and the Rise of Slytherin's Heir

by RoryE



Series: The Life and Times of Halimah Potter, the Girl Who Lived [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Trans Female Character, Trans Harry Potter, trans themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryE/pseuds/RoryE
Summary: Halimah Potter is back for her second year at Hogwarts! After surviving the travails of her first year, she is even more firmly sure of who she is, but Gilderoy Lockhart and the opening of the Chamber of Secrets will surely put her mettle to the test.





	1. Halimah's Worst Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> CW MISGENDERING, ABUSE
> 
> The Dursleys are still really shitty, and Halimah's gonna be A LOT more angry about how house elves are treated.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud hooting noise from his niece Halimah’s room.

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

Halimah tried, yet again, to explain.

“She’s  _ bored _ ,” she said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night —”

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Halimah tried to argue back but her words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.

“I want more bacon.”

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her son. “We must get you all the protein we can so you can be ready for boxing next term!”

Dudley, whose muscles were, frankly, alarmingly large for a twelve year old’s, grinned and turned to Halimah.

“Pass the frying pan.”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Halimah irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

“I meant ‘please’!” said Halimah quickly. “I didn’t mean —”

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered her uncle, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”

“But I —”

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.

“I just —”

“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”

Halimah stared from her purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to help Dudley to his feet.

“All right,” said Halimah, “ _ all right _ ...”

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Halimah closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Ever since Halimah had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating her like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Halimah Potter wasn’t a run-of-the-mill girl. As a matter of fact, she was as not run-of-the-mill as it is possible to be.

Halimah Potter was a witch — a witch fresh from her first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, during which time she had also come out as a transgender girl. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have her back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Halimah felt.

She missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomach ache. She missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, her classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in her four-poster bed in the girl’s tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks), and most of all, being able to be herself without the worry of being shouted at.

All Halimah’s spellbooks, her wand, robes, girl’s clothes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in the cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Halimah had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Halimah lost her place on the House Quidditch team because she hadn’t practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Halimah went back to school without any of her homework done? What did the Dursley’s care that it cut like hot knives every time they called her “Harry” and “boy” and made her wear exclusively Dudley’s oldest, most masculine clothes? The Dursleys were what magical folk called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a witch in the family was even worse than having a transgender person in the family. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Halimah’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. Luckily, she had been able to smuggle out the doses of potion that kept her going on the right puberty, and kept the male puberty at bay.

Halimah looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and muscle-bound. Halimah, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with warm brown skin, brilliant green eyes, and jet-black hair that was always untidy and had gotten a lot longer in the past year, almost down to her shoulders. She wore round glasses, and on her forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.

It was this scar that made Halimah so particularly unusual, even for a witch. This scar was the only hint of Halimah’s very mysterious past, of the reason she had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years before.

At the age of one year old, Halimah had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches, wizards, and sorcerers still feared to speak. Halimah’s parents had died in Voldemort’s attack, but Halimah had escaped with her lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Halimah.

So Halimah had been brought up by her dead mother’s sister and her husband. She had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why she kept making odd things happen without meaning to, not understanding why they wouldn’t believe that she was a girl, believing the Dursleys’ story that she had got her scar in the car crash that had killed her parents.

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Halimah (calling her by the correct name and everything), and the whole story had come out. Halimah had taken up her place at witch school, where she and her scar were famous (although there were still a few people who didn’t understand her identity)...but now the school year was over, and she was back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like an irksome problem.

The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Halimah’s twelfth birthday. Of course, her hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given her a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely...

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.” 

Halimah looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said Uncle Vernon.

Halimah went back to her toast.  _ Of course _ , she thought bitterly,  _ Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party _ . He’d been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?”

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “ _ May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason? _ ”

“They’ll  _ love _ him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Halimah. “And you?”

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Halimah tonelessly.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.

“And, Dudley, you’ll say —”

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering his arm to an invisible woman.

“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.

“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Halimah.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Halimah dully.

“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”

“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason...Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason...”

“Perfect….Dudley?”

“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’ ”

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Halimah. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Halimah ducked under the table so they wouldn’t see her laughing.

“And you,  _ boy _ ?”

Halimah glared at him and fought to keep her face straight as she emerged.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” she said, an edge to her voice.

“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow.”

Halimah couldn’t feel too excited about this. She didn’t think the Dursleys would like her any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you,” he snarled at Halimah. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s cleaning.”

Halimah left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. She crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under her breath:

“Happy birthday to me...happy birthday to me...”

No cards, no presents, and she would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. As if that was anything new to her; it was how she had spent her first ten years under the Dursleys thumbs. She gazed miserably into the hedge. She had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch and being able to visibly be herself, Halimah missed her best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing her at all. Neither of them had written to her all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Halimah to come and stay.

Countless times, Halimah had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to Hermione and Ron with a letter, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Underage witches weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. Halimah hadn’t told the Dursleys this; she knew it was only their terror that she might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking her in the cupboard under the stairs with her wand and broomstick and clothes. For the first couple of weeks back, Halimah had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under her breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him. But the long silence from Hermione and Ron had made Halimah feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal — and now Hermione and Ron had forgotten her birthday.

What wouldn’t she give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch, wizard, or sorcerer? She’d almost be glad of a sight of her arch-enemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream...

Not that her whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Halimah had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Halimah had slipped through Voldemort’s clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Halimah kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering how he had hissed out hateful words, his livid face, his wide, mad eyes —

Halimah suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. She had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge — and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves.

Halimah jumped to her feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.

“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, walking toward her.

The huge eyes blinked and vanished.

“What?” said Halimah, not taking her eyes off the spot where they had been.

“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to her.

“Well done,” said Halimah in a bored voice. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”

“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got any freak friends at that freak place? Or do they all think you’re gross for pretending to be a girl, too?”

“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school.” said Halimah coolly.

Dudley glared at her.

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.

“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Halimah.

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his face.

“You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic — he said he’ll chuck you out of the house — and you haven’t got anywhere else to go — you haven’t got any friends to take you —”

“Jiggery pokery!” said Halimah in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus — squiggly wiggly —”

“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back toward the house. “MUUUUM! He’s doing you know what!”

Halimah paid dearly for her moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew she hadn’t really done magic, but she still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at her head with the soapy frying pan.Then she gave her work to do, with the promise she wouldn’t eat again until she’d finished. She was reduced to cleaning and flinching at sudden movements all afternoon, her face burning, hating how much she feared them all.

While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Halimah cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of her neck. Halimah knew she shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Halimah had been thinking herself...maybe she didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts...maybe they all thought she was a freak, too...

_ Wish they could see famous Halimah Potter now _ , she thought savagely as she spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down her face. At least her hair was long enough now to pull back into a short braid.

It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, she heard Aunt Petunia calling her.

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”

Halimah moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.

Halimah washed her hands and bolted down her pitiful supper. The moment she had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away her plate.

“Upstairs! Hurry!”

As she passed the door to the living room, Halimah caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. She had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Remember,  _ boy _ — one sound —”

Halimah gave a rude hand gesture to the back of her uncle’s head as he turned around, crossed to her bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on her bed.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.


	2. An Elfish Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah meets her first house-elf and is horrified to learn of the abuses that they are forced to endure. The Dursleys force another kind of horror on her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW MISGENDERING, ABUSE, DYSPHORIA, SUICIDE MENTION
> 
> They Dursleys are just fucking awful, okay? They just are. And Halimah is gonna care so much more about SPEW and elfish welfare and rights because, uh, how could she not? Like, growing up the way that she did?

Halimah managed not to scream, but it was a close thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. Halimah knew instantly that this being was who had been watching her out of the garden hedge that morning.

As they stared at each other, Halimah heard Dudley’s voice from the hall.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of their long, thin nose touched the carpet. Halimah noticed that they were wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

“Er — hello,” said Halimah nervously, keeping her voice as quiet as possible.

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Halimah was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir...Such an honor it is…”

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into her desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage, “But it’s Halimah.”  She wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead she said, “Who are you?”

“Dobby, si-miss. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature, “And Dobby is sorry, miss, for calling you the wrong name, miss.”

“Oh, um, it’s okay — but, uh, really?” said Halimah. “Er — I don’t want to be rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in  my bedroom.”

Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the living room.

The elf hung his head.

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Halimah quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re here?”

“Oh, yes, miss,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, miss...it is difficult, miss...Dobby wonders where to begin..”

“Well, how about you sit down, and we can talk, er, quietly,” said Halimah politely, pointing at the bed.

To her horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never...never ever...”

Halimah thought she heard the voices downstairs falter.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wiz--witch — like an equal —”

Halimah, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large, strange doll. Halimah was extremely confused and feeling the beginnings of consternation: what had happened to this poor--what had Dobby said? House-elf?--to make him react so to kind words? At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Halimah in an expression of watery adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent witches,” said Halimah, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head, and gave a watery laugh, “Dobby hasn’t, no.” Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the windowsill, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

“Don’t — what are you doing? Stop hurting yourself, stop!” Halimah hissed in alarm, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed — Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage.

“Dobby had to punish himself, miss,” said the elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, miss...”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, miss...Dobby is a house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family forever...”

“Oh, I am so, so sorry,” said Halimah, feeling slightly nauseated and angered. Apparently some things were the same in both the non-magical and magical worlds. “Do they know you’re here?” she asked in concern, thinking about what the Dursleys would do to her if  _ she _ had snuck out and talked to other people without their knowledge.

Dobby shuddered.

“Oh, no, miss, no...Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, miss. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, miss —”

“You don’t have to call me “miss”, Dobby. But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?” Her feeling of anger grew.

“Dobby doubts it, mi--Halimah. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something. They lets Dobby get on with it. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments...”

“But why don’t you leave? Escape?” Halimah’s anger was such that she felt her face heating up.

“A house-elf must be set free, miss Halimah. And the family will never set Dobby free...Dobby will serve the family until he dies...”

Halimah stared in horror, her rage almost overwhelming.

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks, makes the Dursleys seem almost human” she muttered, “Dobby, this isn’t right, is there anything that I can do, that anyone can do to help?”

Almost at once, Halimah wished she hadn’t spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

“Please,” Halimah whispered frantically, “please be quiet. I want to help, but if the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re here —”

“Har-Halimah Potter asks if she can help Dobby...Dobby has heard of your greatness, miss, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew...”

Halimah, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face from anger and embarrassment, said, “Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish, any decent person would want to help you, I’m sure. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; that’s Hermione, she —”

But she stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione was painful.

“Halimah Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Halimah Potter speaks not of her triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

“Voldemort?” said Halimah.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the name! Speak not the name!”

“Sorry,” said Halimah quickly. “I know lots of people don’t like it. My friend Ron —” 

She stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful, too.

Dobby leaned toward Halimah, his eyes wide as headlights.

“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Halimah Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago...that Halimah Potter escaped yet again.”

Halimah nodded uncomfortably and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears.

“Ah, Halimah Potter,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Halimah Potter is valiant and bold! She has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Halimah Potter, to warn her, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later...Halimah Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“W-what?” Halimah stammered. “But I’ve  _ got _ to go back — term starts on September first. It’s all that’s keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like---,” She stopped herself. However bad she had it, it seemed like Dobby’s situation was a lot more dire, “ I don’t belong here. I belong in your world, our world — at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Halimah Potter must stay where she is safe. She is too great, too good, to lose. If Halimah Potter goes back to Hogwarts, she will be in mortal danger.”

“ _ Why _ ?” said Halimah in surprise.

“There is a plot, Halimah Potter. A plot to make most _ terrible _ things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months. Halimah Potter must not put herself in peril. She is too important!”

“What terrible things?” said Halimah at once. “Who’s plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

“All right!” cried Halimah, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. She was shaken to her core by what Dobby had said, but even more so about his slavery-imposed punishments. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck her. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to do with  _ Vol _ — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod,” she added hastily as Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

“Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Halimah a hint Halimah, however, was completely lost.

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?”

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” said Halimah. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one thing...not that he’s always on top of things.” Halimah said, somewhat bitterly, thinking of how the Hogwarts headmaster had left her with the Dursleys, knowing that they would be terrible.

Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is a great and power headmaster,  Dobby knows it. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But,” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t...powers no decent person...”

And before Halimah could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Halimah’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps. Halimah froze in horror and nausea.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Halimah, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet! I’m so sorry,” hissed Halimah desperately, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging herself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

“What — the —  _ devil _ — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Halimah’s.

 

“You’ve just ruined the punch line of my golf joke...One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born,  _ boy _ !”

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Halimah let Dobby out of the closet. A few of her used  Pubesce-Halt and Estro-Grow potion bottles rolled out with him.

“I’m sorry about that, but see what it’s like here?” she said. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got — well, I think I’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Halimah Potter?” said Dobby innocently.

“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said Halimah, frowning. “How do  _ you _ know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet.

“Halimah Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —”

“Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby has them here,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Halimah’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Halimah could make out Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Halimah.

“Halimah Potter mustn’t be angry...Dobby hoped...if Halimah Potter thought her friends had forgotten her...Halimah Potter might not want to go back to school...”

Halimah wasn’t listening. She still felt awful for Dobby’s enslavement, but she  _ needed _ those letters. She made a grab for them, but Dobby jumped out of reach.

“Halimah Potter will have them if she gives Dobby her word that she will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, miss, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back!”

“No,” said Halimah in frustration. “Give me my friends’ letters!”

“Then Halimah Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly.

Before Halimah could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Halimah sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. She jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room she heard Uncle Vernon saying, “...tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She’s been dying to hear...”

Halimah ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt her stomach disappear.

Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

“No,” moaned Halimah. “Please...they’ll kill me...Dobby, c’mon, I’ll do anything, I’ll find some way that you don’t have to go back to your family, just...”

“Halimah Potter must say she’s not going back to school —”

“Dobby...please...”

“Say it, Halimah Potter —”

“I can’t —”

Dobby gave her a tragic look.

“Then Dobby must do it, miss, for Halimah Potter’s own good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Halimah, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our  _ nephew _ — very antisocial — meeting strangers upsets him, so we kept him upstairs...”) He shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Halimah he would flay her to within an inch of her life when the Masons had left, and handed her a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Halimah, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean. She was incapable of feeling anything other than fear. She was terrified of what would happen once the Masons left the house.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about the suburbs. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke.

Halimah stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on her, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes. Halimah’s palms were slick with sweat, and it took everything in her to not flinch away from her uncle’s approach.

“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered. “Go on — read it!”

Halimah took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine. 

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,

_ Mafalda Hopkirk _

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic

 

Halimah’s hands had crumpled the edges of the parchment, tightening when she saw again the “Mr.” and “expulsion” written on it. She looked up from the letter and gulped.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it...Slipped your mind, I daresay...”

He was bearing down on Halimah like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you,  _ boy _ ...I’m locking you up...You’re never going back to that school...never pretending you’re a girl ever again...and if you try and magic yourself out — they’ll expel you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Halimah back upstairs. As he was throwing her into room, he noticed the empty potion bottles lying next to the wardrobe.

“And what’s this?” he sneered, picking one up, “Tester-End? Estro-Grow? Pubesce-Halt? What have you been doing, _boy_? Drugs? In my house?”  
“Please, no, it’s for my, I take them because---,” but she didn’t get to finish. Uncle Vernon wrenched open the wardrobe, saw the rest of her potion stash, and promptly picked them up.

“No more of that, I assure you,  _ boy _ ,” he said, and slammed her door, locking it behind him.

Halimah cried for hours, but was unable to fall asleep.

 

****

 

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Halimah’s window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Halimah out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, she was locked in her room around the clock. Uncle Vernon had refused to tell her whether he had kept her potions, or poured them down the drain. She told him that if he did, their plumbing would melt and be impossible to fix, and hoped that would be enough to stay his hand.

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and Halimah couldn’t see any way out of her situation. She lay on her bed watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to her.

What was the good of magicking herself out of her room if Hogwarts would expel her for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had become a hell. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as fruit bats, she had lost her only weapon. Life without her potions was unbearable (she found a couple of hairs forcing their way through her skin on her lip on the second day). Dobby might have saved Halimah from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, she’d probably starve to death anyway, or die of some other horrible abuse at the Dursleys’ hands, or, if the dysphoria grew overwhelming...

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Halimah, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off her bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but she drank half of it in one gulp. Then she crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the soggy bits of meat at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave her a look of deep disgust.

“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all we’ve got,” said Halimah grimly.

She put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than she had been before the soup.

 

Supposing she was still alive in another four weeks, what would happen if she didn’t turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why she hadn’t come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let her go?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable questions, body feeling the terrible emptiness that came from coming off her potions, Halimah fell into an uneasy sleep.

She dreamed that she was on show in a zoo, with a card reading UNDERAGE WITCH attached to her cage. People goggled through the bars at her as she lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. She saw Dobby’s face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, “Halimah Potter is safe there!” and vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at her.

“Stop it,” Halimah muttered as the rattling pounded in her sore head. “Leave me alone...cut it out...I’m trying to sleep...”

She opened her eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window. And someone was goggling through the bars at her: a freckle-faced, red-haired, long-nosed someone.

Ron Weasley was outside Halimah’s window.


	3. To The Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah is rescued and travels to Ron's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW ABUSE MENTION, BRIEF MISGENDERING/DEADNAMING
> 
> The Weasleys are great, and Halimah is much more understanding of Ginny, plus there will be more Ginny scenes bc they're sharing a room lol

_ Ron _ !” breathed Halimah, creeping to the window and pushing it up so they could talk through the bars. “Ron, how did you — What the — ?”

Halimah’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what she was seeing hit her. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in midair. Grinning at Halimah from the front seats were Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers.

“All right, Halimah?” asked George.

“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles —”

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”

“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know we’re not supposed to do spells outside school —”

“You should talk,” said Halimah, staring at the floating car.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with —”

“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let me come back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done in three days, so —”

“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you home with us.”

“But you can’t magic me out either —”

“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got with me.”

“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Halimah.

“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead. They’re barely feeding me and they took all my potions and stuff,” said Halimah as she tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car.

“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”

Halimah moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in the air. Halimah ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car. Halimah listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Dursleys’ bedrooms.

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed as close as possible to Halimah’s window.

“Get in,” Ron said.

“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my broomstick — all my girl clothes and potions...”

“Where is it all?”

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t get out of this room —”

“No problem,” said George from the front passenger seat. “Out of the way, Halimah.”

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window into Halimah’s room. You had to hand it to them, thought Halimah, as George took an ordinary hairpin from his pocket and started to pick the lock.

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick,” said Fred, “but we feel they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a bit slow.”

There was a small click and the door swung open.

“So — we’ll get your trunk — you grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ron,” whispered George, “They really took your potions? Unbelievable.” He sounded furious. George was a trans boy, and had helped Halimah a lot last year.

“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Halimah whispered back as the twins disappeared onto the dark landing.

Halimah dashed around her room, collecting her things and passing them out of the window to Ron. Then she went to help Fred and George heave her trunk up the stairs. Halimah then made sure that her potions were there-they were, every single one. She breathed a sigh of relief. As they were sneaking back into the room, Halimah heard Uncle Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they carried the trunk through Halimah’s room to the open window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with Ron, and Halimah and George pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.

Uncle Vernon coughed again.

“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from inside the car. “One good push —”

Halimah and George threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat of the car.

“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered.

But as Halimah climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud screech from behind her, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“THAT RUDDY OWL!”

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”

Halimah tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on — she snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ron. She was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door — and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Halimah, grabbing her by the ankle.

Ron, Fred, and George seized Halimah’s arms and pulled as hard as they could.

“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Halimah’s leg slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp — Halimah was in the car — she’d slammed the door shut —

“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, and the car shot suddenly toward the moon.

Halimah couldn’t believe it — she was free. She rolled down the window, the night air whipping her hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Halimah’s window.

“See you next summer!” Halimah yelled, flashing them a rude hand gesture.

The Weasleys roared with laughter and Halimah settled back in her seat, grinning from ear to ear.

“Let Hedwig out,” she told Ron. “She can fly behind us. She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.”

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

“So — what’s the story, Halimah?” said Ron impatiently. “What’s been happening?”

Halimah told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Halimah and the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when she had finished.

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”

“I don’t think he could,” said Halimah. “I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall. It was really awful, and he seemed terrified of his family, but it seemed like he really wanted to be there, telling me all of this stuff.”

She saw Fred and George look at each other.

“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Halimah, a little defensively.

“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”

“Yes,” said Halimah and Ron together, instantly.

“Draco Malfoy,” Halimah explained. “He hates me.”

“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said Halimah. “Why?”

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”

“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred, craning around to look at Halimah, “Lucius Malfoy came back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung — Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.”

Halimah had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family before, and they didn’t surprise her at all. Malfoy made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.

“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf...” said Harry, “Ugh, it’s disgusting that anyone can  _ own _ another person like that.

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred.

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our house...”

Halimah was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to stop Halimah from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing Malfoy would do. Had Halimah been naive to take Dobby seriously? Something Fred and George had said still bothered her, though.

“Why on earth would your mum want an enslaved servant?” She asked quietly.

“Oh, you know, they get a lot done,” Fred shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“At what cost, though?” Halimah’s voice was tight, and she felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She had taken the first chance she got to drink her potions and apparently they were already having an effect.

“Halimah--,” George began, but she cut him off.

“No one should own another being like that,” Halimah said fiercely, “Or make them so afraid in the way that Dobby was. I know. I’ve---I’ve, ever since I was little, the Dursleys---,” She was breathing heavily now, her vision swimming.

“Halimah!” Ron said in alarm, “Come on, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re not there anymore.”

Halimah had curled up in a ball, but her breathing was slowing, “It’s just not right,” she whispered into her knees.

“I’m--look, I’m sorry, Halimah,” George said awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to--well, I’m sorry, is all.”

“House-elves are just an accepted thing in the magical world,” Fred said, “But maybe that should change. But we can talk about that later, clearly it’s upsetting you.”

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron, patting Halimah’s arm. “I was getting really worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first —”

“Who’s Errol?”

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes —”

“Who?”

“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,” said Fred.

“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said he needed him.”

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room...I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge...You’re driving too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.

“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said Halimah, guessing the answer.

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”

“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?”

“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron. “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“The  _ what _ ?”

“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare — Dad was working overtime for weeks.”

“What happened?”

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office — and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up —”

“But your dad — this car —”

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.”

“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes...Just as well, it’s getting light...”

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. Fred brought the car lower, and Halimah saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.

“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George. “Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Halimah looked out for the first time at Ron’s house.

It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, Halimah reminded herself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read,  _ THE BURROW _ . Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

“It’s not much,” said Ron.

“It’s  _ wonderful _ ,” said Halimah happily, thinking of Privet Drive and how even if it looked nice on the outside, it would always be a place of fear to her.

They got out of the car.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and point to the couch, ‘cos she’d go berserk if she thought a girl’d slept in Ron’s room, Halimah, and she’ll be all pleased to see you and no one need ever know we flew the car.”

“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Halimah, the couch is —”

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house.

The other three wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“ _ Ah _ ,” said Fred.

“Oh, dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.

“ _ So _ ,” she said.

“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you  _ any _ idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“ _ Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy — _ ”

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —”

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Halimah, who backed away almost unconsciously.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m very pleased to see you, Halimah, dear,” she said. “Come in and have some breakfast.”

She turned and walked back into the house and Halimah, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Halimah sat down on the edge of her seat, looking around. She had never been in a magical house before.

The clock on the wall opposite her had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like  _ Time to make tea _ ,  _ Time to feed the chickens _ , and  _ You’re late _ . Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like  _ Charm Your Own Cheese _ ,  _ Enchantment in Baking _ , and  _ One Minute Feasts — It’s Magic! _ And unless Halimah’s ears were deceiving her, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.”

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like “ _ don’t know what you were thinking of, _ ” and “ _ never would have believed it. _ ”

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Halimah, tipping eight or nine sausages onto her plate. “Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she was now adding three fried eggs to her plate), “flying an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone could have seen you —”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“They were  _ starving _ her, Mum!” said George.

“We were going to come get her today in any case! But that is terrible, if I had a minute alone with those...those...How anyone could treat a child like that...” said Mrs. Weasley, and Halimah noticed that she gripped her wand very tightly and the look on her face was fiercely protective. Tears welled up in Halimah’s eyes and she quickly ducked her head and pretended to be wiping sausage grease from her lips. Was this what it felt like to be loved?

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, red-headed figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Halimah. “My sister. She’s been talking about you all summer. She’s convinced you’ll be best friends, or something.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Halimah,” Fred said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and bent his face over his plate without another word. Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”

“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again —”

“Oh, Mum —”

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. “You can go up to bed, dear, I’ll show you to Ginny’s room” she added to Halimah. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car —”

But Halimah, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help Ron. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece.

George groaned.

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Halimah looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words  _ Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests _ . There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the magical world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Halimah supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book...”

“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible whisper.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley with a snort. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Halimah behind them. The garden was large, and in Halimah’s eyes, exactly what a garden should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it — there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Halimah had never seen except for in Herbology lessons spilling from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Halimah told Ron as they crossed the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush, “like stubby little Santa Clauses with fishing rods...”

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “This is a gnome,” he said grimly.

“ _ Gerroff me! Gerroff me! _ ” squealed the gnome.

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it kicked out at him with its calloused little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the gnome above his head (“ _ Gerroff me! _ ”) and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Halimah’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t  _ hurt _ them — you’ve just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.”

He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.

“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.”

“Why do you have to get rid of them?” Halimah asked.

“They’ll pull up all the vegetables, and sometimes they’ll go after the chickens,” George said, lobbing another gnome over the wall.

Halimah learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. She decided just to drop the first one she caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Halimah’s finger and she had a hard job shaking it off — until —

“Wow, Halimah — that must’ve been fifty feet...”

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look. You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay put.”

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here...Dad’s too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny...”

Just then, the front door slammed.

“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”

They hurried through the garden and back into the house.

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children’s. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned...”

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though. Mort Lake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness...”

“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said George.

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it...Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face...But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”

Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

“C-cars, Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Arthur,  _ cars _ ,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it  _ fly _ .”

Mr. Weasley blinked.

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth...There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find...As long as he wasn’t  _ intending _ to fly the car, the fact that the car  _ could _ fly wouldn’t —”

“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Har-Halimah arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!”

“Halimah?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Halimah who?”

He looked around, saw Halimah, and jumped.

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about —”

“Hi, um, thanks, good to meet you too, but like she said, it’s Halimah,” Halimah said nervously, eyeing Mrs. Weasley.

“ _ Your sons flew that car to Halimah’s house and back last night! _ ” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”

“Did you  _ really _ ?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed...”

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping, in Ginny’s room, and then we can go hang out in my room.”

As they were slipping out of the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley paused in her explosion and said, “Ron! Make sure Halimah’s cot is all made up in Ginny’s, and door open if you go to your room!”

“Mum, _ honestly! _ ” Ron moaned, going scarlet, as Halimah felt herself blushing. Did Mrs. Weasley really think that she and Ron were dating, or something?

They made it the rest of the way out of the kitchen without further incident and then went and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up  through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Ron knocked on it and started pushing it open.

“Ginny, you in here? We just wanted to check that Halimah’s stuff was---,”

He was cut off by a loud thump and a bunch of scuffling.

“Come in,” said a small voice. Ginny was lying on her back on her bed, clearly pretending to look nonchalant.

“What were you doing?” Ron asked suspiciously, looking around.

“Nothing,” Ginny said, blinking her brown eyes innocently. She caught sight of Halimah and quickly looked away, blushing just as scarlet as Ron did. Halimah noticed some broom twigs lying on the ground and grinned.  _ Looks like someone’s into flying _ , she thought. She didn’t say anything, though.

“Whatever,” said Ron. He waved his hand at the camp bed that had been set up next to Ginny’s window, “Your stuff’s there, Halimah, and I think your trunk any everything are under the bed. Mum put Hedwig’s cage down with Errol’s.

“Thanks!” said Halimah, who was looking around at Ginny’s room. There were quite a few posters, both magical and Muggle, including one for the Weird Sisters (apparently a magical band), the Hollyhead Harpies (Britain’s only all-women’s Quidditch Team, also one of Halimah’s favorites), and for Queen. She also had quite a few books and a desk littered with sketches and intricate little models. She went and picked one up. It was a tiny griffin, curled around a small chest of gold. 

“These are  _ amazing _ , Ginny!” she said in awe holding it up to her eye to see all of the details. 

“Er, thanks,” Ginny said, with a small sigh, “Let me know if you need anything, I can show you, um, where we keep stuff in the bathroom and everything.”

Halimah smiled and nodded and then followed Ron from the room.

“She’s been talking about you all summer,” Ron said again, almost apologetically, "but Mum won’t let you kip in my room, you know…” His ears when scarlet again.

Halimah rolled her eyes, “Really, Ron, come  _ on _ . And Ginny seems really cool actually, wish I had a sister. Though I guess Hermione kind of counts.”

They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it, saying RONALD’S ROOM. 

Halimah stepped in, her head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Halimah realized that Ron had covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.

“Your Quidditch team?” said Halimah, grinning. She’d heard Ron mention going to games before, but not his favorite team.

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”

Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature  _ Merlin and Arthur, Adventures Through History _ . Ron’s wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun.

Halimah stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below she could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’ hedge. Then she turned to look at Ron, who was watching her almost nervously, as though waiting for her opinion.

“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning, and I know the walls need re-painting...”

But Halimah, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”

Ron’s ears went scarlet for a third time.


	4. Floo-rish and Blotts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah loves staying with the Weasleys and accompanies them to Diagon Alley, where she encounters an infuriating new professor and outright bigotry from the Malfoys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW MISGENDERING, ABUSE MENTION, TRANSPHOBIA, HOMOPHOBIA
> 
> There are some pretty big character additions in this one, not so much plot changes. I just always felt that the Grangers deserved more of a spotlight, and that Halimah would be a little bit more proactive in terms of trying to give away her gold to the Weasleys, even if what she tries here definitely isn't going to work again. Also, Gilderoy Lockhart would *definitely* be that person who learns that someone is trans and just draws attention to that fact every time he speaks to them because he's a self-centered asshole.

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house burst with the strange and unexpected. Halimah got a shock the first time she looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, “ _ Comb your hair, missy! _ ” The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and George’s bedroom were considered perfectly normal. Ginny’s room was no different: the wind howled outside the window at night and rattled the glass, and her currently wand-less magic occurred often and unexpectedly, much to Ginny’s embarrassment. Halimah tried her best to set the younger girl at ease with tales of her own incidents of childhood magic. 

What Halimah found most unusual about life at Ron’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like her AND did not question her identity in the slightest. Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of her socks and tried to force her to eat fourth helpings at every meal. She also helped her see if any of her old clothes would fit Halimah (“I know this is probably out of style, dear, but why don’t you try it on!”). Mrs. Weasley also had another clock, one that had a hand for each member of the family, and instead of time, it told of each person’s current situation:  _ Traveling _ ,  _ At Work _ ,  _ At School _ ,  _ Mortal Peril _ (directly at midnight), and so on. Ginny was enthralled by her, sitting up later than they were supposed to, talking about Halimah’s adventures the following year, and telling Halimah about her childhood at the Burrow, while Ron filled in details for both of them, and they both took turns playing him at magical chess. Mr. Weasley liked Halimah to sit next to him at the dinner table so that he could bombard her with questions about life with Muggles, asking her to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked.

“ _ Fascinating! _ ” he would say as Halimah talked him through using a telephone. “ _ Ingenious _ , really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic.”

Halimah heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after she had arrived at the Burrow. She and Ginny waited for Ron to come down from his room, and then all trouped down to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were already having breakfast. The moment she saw Ginny Mrs. Weasley hurried over and smothered her youngest child in a hug. Ginny went pink and refused to meet Halimah’s eyes.

“Your letter just arrived, Ginny! Of course we knew, with how powerful your magic has been, but it’s wonderful news! Here you are, here’s the letter!” Mrs. Weasley was beaming, and Ginny simply looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

Although she had gotten used to being around Halimah, as they were sharing a room, Ginny seemed very self-conscious about everything whenever she was around Halimah. She grabbed the letter and went to read it on the back step, her face glowing like the setting sun.. Pretending she hadn’t noticed this, Halimah sat down and took the toast Mrs. Weasley offered her a moment later, her gaze fixed on the back of her daughter’s head.

“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing Halimah and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore already knows you’re here, Halimah — doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” he added, as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas.

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Halimah’s told her to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King’s Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new books she’d need for the coming year.

SECOND YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

_ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2  _ by Miranda Goshawk

_ Break with a Banshee _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Gadding with Ghouls _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Holidays with Hags _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Travels with Trolls _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Voyages with Vampires _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Wanderings with Werewolves _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Year with the Yeti _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Halimah’s.

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan.”

At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade.

“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive...”

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny’s things secondhand.”

“Oh yeah, congratulations!” Halimah turned to Ginny, who had just come in from reading her letter. 

“Thanks,” she blushed to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Halimah, because just then Ron’s elder brother Percy walked in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his sweater vest.

“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”

He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that was what Halimah thought it was, until she saw that it was breathing.

“ _ Errol _ !” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally — he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining board instead, muttering, “Come  _ on _ .” Then he ripped open Hermione’s letter and read it out loud:

“ ‘ _ Dear Ron, and Halimah if you’re there, _

_ “ ‘I hope everything went all right and that Halimah is okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get her out, Ron, because that would get Halimah into trouble, too. I’ve been really worried and if Halimah is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl, because I think another delivery might finish your one off _ .

“ ‘ _ I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course _ ’ — How can she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! — ‘ _ and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? _

“ ‘ _ Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from _

_ Hermione _ .’ ”

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”

Halimah, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Halimah’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies, much to Ron’s anger.

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Halimah had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning. “He’s not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all.”

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing Halimah’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.”

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Halimah had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts.

“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said George after a while. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything...”

Halimah said nothing for a beat. She felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that her parents had left her. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that she had money; you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. She had never mentioned her Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; she didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.

“Look, you’re all welcome to--,” she began, but Ron cut her off loudly, talking about the wind and what kind of flying would be best for practice.

****

Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. Halimah dressed quickly in a lovely floral skirt and blouse that Mrs. Weasley had insisted that she take from her closet (“Ginny doesn’t much like skirts, and I was keeping it for her, you’ll be doing me a favor!”). After a quick half a dozen chicken sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.

“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today...Ah well, guests first! After you, Halimah dear!”

And she offered her the flowerpot.

Halimah stared at them all watching her.

“W-what am I supposed to do?” she stammered, feeling her face flush.

“She’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron suddenly. “Sorry, Halimah, I forgot.”

“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”

“I went on the Underground with Hagrid —”

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there _ escapators _ ? How  _ exactly _ —”

“Not  _ now _ , Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before —”

“She’ll be all right, Mum, she’s sharp” said Fred. “Halimah, watch us first.” He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.

“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told Halimah as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate...”

“The right what?” said Halimah nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too.

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly —”

“She’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to Floo powder, too.

“But, dear, if she got lost, how will she contact us? And what would her aunt and uncle think...”

“They wouldn’t mind,” Halimah reassured her, smiling bitterly. “Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that, you saw what they did this summer — and if I get out in the wrong place, well, I can take care of myself, I’ll find a map or something.”

“Well...all right...you go after Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going —”

“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised.

“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —”

“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace —”

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George.”

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Halimah took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. She took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; she opened her mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.

“D-Dia-gon Alley,” she coughed, spluttering out the words.

It felt as though she were being sucked down a giant drain. She seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in her ears was deafening — she tried to keep her eyes open but the whirl of green flames made her feel sick — something hard knocked her elbow and she tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hands were slapping her face — squinting through her trembling glasses she saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — her chicken sandwiches were churning inside her — she closed her eyes again wishing it would stop, and then —

She fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of her glasses snap.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, she got gingerly to her feet, holding her broken glasses up to her eyes. She was quite alone, but where she was, she had no idea. All she could tell was that she was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking metallic devices glinted from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and more rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Halimah could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner she got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Halimah made her way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before she’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass — and one of them was the very last person Halimah wanted to meet when she was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.

Halimah looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to her left; she shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shop. For a second Halimah’s vision went weird, colors blurring, and a roaring growing in her ears, and for the briefest second she could swear she heard the distant voice of Professor McGonagall, her Head of House at Hogwarts. She shook her head and her sight cleared. Probably just the aftermath of her Floo travel and panic at seeing Malfoy.

The man who followed Draco into the shop could only be his father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying “Touch nothing, Draco.”

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.”

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s  _ famous _ ...famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead...the stupid little pervert, dressing like a  _ girl _ ...”

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

“...everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick and his stupid  _ transition _ —”

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son. “And I would remind you that it is not —  _ prudent _ — to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr. Borgin.”

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted — and young Master Mal- foy, too — charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced —”

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Malfoy.

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face.

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah —  _ items _ at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call...”

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”

Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.

“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it —”

Halimah felt a hot surge of anger and unconsciously reached for her wand before remembering that it was tucked safely in her trunk under her cot in Ginny’s room.

“— and as you see, certain of these, ah,  _ concoctions _ , might make it appear —”

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see...”

“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”

“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —”

“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for —”

“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger —”

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that that dirty-blooded girl beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy.

“You goddamn--” said Halimah under her breath, fists clenched in anger, but she cut herself off, afraid of being heard.

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere —”

 

“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today —”

They started to haggle. Halimah watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to her hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals,  _ Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date _ .

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward — he stretched out his hand for the handle —

“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco —”

Halimah wiped her forehead on her arm as Draco turned away.

“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.

“Good day yourself,  _ Mister  _ Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your  _ manor _ ...”

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Halimah waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as she could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door.

Clutching her broken glasses to her face, Halimah stared around. She had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one she’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of human and nonhuman skulls and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two haughty, creepy-looking wizards were watching her from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, suddenly vividly aware of what it was like to be a young girl alone, Halimah set off, trying to hold her glasses on straight and hoping against hope she’d be able to find a way out of here.  _ Why on earth does the Ministry of Magic allow a whole street of Dark shops to keep running? _ she thought as she walked quickly by other rich-looking, but definitely evil-seeming, witches and wizards, trying to avoid eye contact.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told her she was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Halimah had never heard of such a place. She supposed she hadn’t spoken clearly enough through her mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, she wondered what to do.

“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in her ear, making her jump.

An aged wizard stood in front of her, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. He leered at her, eyes scanning her face. Halimah backed away.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “I’m just —”

“HALIMAH! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”

Halimah’s heart leapt. So did the wizard; a load of fingernails cascaded down over his feet and he cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

“Hagrid!” Halimah squeaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo powder —”

Hagrid seized Halimah by the scruff of the neck and pulled her away from the wizard, knocking the tray right out of his hands. His shrieks followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Halimah saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Hagrid had steered her right into Diagon Alley.

“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Halimah so forcefully he nearly knocked her into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary. “Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno — dodgy place, Halimah — don’ want no one ter see yeh down there —”

“I realized that,” said Halimah, ducking as Hagrid made to brush her off again. “I told you, I was lost — what were you doing down there, anyway? And why does that place even exist? Doesn’t the Ministry of Magic have laws against Dark stuff?”

“ _ I _ was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” growled Hagrid. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages. And yeh might’ve noticed that the, er, clientele down Knockturn seemed pretty well-off, yeah? Well, let’s just say that the people who frequent Knockturn Alley grease all the right pockets. Anyway, yer not on yer own, are yeh?”

“I’m staying with the Weasleys but we got separated,” Halimah explained. “I’ve got to go and find them...”

They set off together down the street.

“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid as Halimah jogged alongside him (she had to take three steps to every stride of Hagrid’s enormous boots). Halimah explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys and her anger at discovering what house-elves dealt with.

“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known...An’ as for house-elves, well, we could---”

“Halimah! Halimah! Over here!”

Halimah looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her wooly brown hair flying behind her.

“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid — Oh, it’s  _ wonderful _ to see you two again — Are you coming into Gringotts, Halimah?”

“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Halimah.

“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a grin.

Halimah and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too far...” He mopped his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now —”

“Where did you come out?” Ron asked.

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.

“Wow!” said Fred and George together.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.

“Yeah, it wasn’t what I’d call a fun place to go,” Halimah said.

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, gripping Ginny’s arm in the other. Ginny looked frustrated and kept rolling her eyes.

“Oh, Halimah — oh, my dear — you could have been anywhere —”

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn’t managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took Halimah’s glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and returned them, good as new.

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found her, Hagrid!”). “See yer at Hogwarts!” And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Halimah asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley sharply behind them.

“No, he was selling —”

“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something...”

“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew —”

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them. Hermione’s father had a shaven head and an elegant, well-maintained beard, and her mother was a head taller than him, with beautiful braids framing her face.

“But you’re  _ Muggles _ !” said Mr. Weasley delightedly. “We _ must _ have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Hermione’s father's hand. Dr. Granger looked highly bemused, but extended his hand.

“Are these the people you were…?” Hermione’s mother began.

“Yes, um, this is Mr. Weasley, I think?” Hermione looked quizzically at Ron, who rolled his eyes and nodded, “And Mrs. Weasley, there, and Fred, George, Ginny, Ron, and then Halimah.”

Both of the Doctors Granger shook the Weasley’s hands, “Elias and Cynthia Granger, very pleased to meet you!”

There were hand-shakings all around, and both Halimah and Ron received big hugs from Hermione’s parents.

“Hermione’s told us so much about you both!” Hermione's mother exclaimed, “It sounds like you all had a lovely first year, and I was glad to hear that the magical world was so accepting of you, Halimah.”

Halimah gave a start, and crooked an eyebrow at Hermione, who had suddenly become fascinated by the marble floor.

“Yeah, things are pretty good at Hogwarts,” Halimah said, “Better than my aunt and uncle, anyway.”

“Mmmmm, yes,” Dr. Granger pursed her lips, “Hermione had mentioned that as well. Well, in any case, I’m glad that you all feel safe at school.”

Halimah nodded and exchanged looks with Ron and Hermione. Hogwarts wasn’t what one would call entirely safe…

When Dr. Granger walked over to her husband to continue talking with Mr. Weasley, Halimah turned to Hermione.

“So…” She said.

“I’m sorry Halimah, I really am, I told her about our first day and how I learned that you were trans and everything when I wrote to them on my first week before we were really good friends and I realize that was rather rude and I promise I won’t do anything like that again.” Hermione said all of this very fast, without breathing.

“It’s--it’s okay,” Halimah said awkwardly, “Just, next time tell me if you let people know, okay? Just so I can be prepared?”

“Of course!” Hermione looked relieved, and the two girls hugged.

“You didn’t tell them about the Sorcerer’s Stone, though, seems like,” said Ron, grinning.

“Well, um, no, they, er, they would have lost it, if I had, I think,” Hermione said, glancing at her parents.

“Oh goodness, look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, “We really must get a move on!”

“Meet you back here,” Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and Halimah were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin.

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Halimah enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than she had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Halimah felt even worse when they reached her vault. She could see all of the Weasleys pointedly not looking at the contents of the vault, and paused. Before she could think about it, she had scooped a bunch of coins from her vault and walked back to the cart.

“Mrs. Weasley,” she began, “Please, could I---,” she held out the bag, but Mrs. Weasley put up a hand, and Mr. Weasley sighed.

“No, Halimah dear, put it back, we absolutely couldn’t,” Mrs. Weasley said kindly, though her eyes tightened.

“We very much appreciate the gesture, Halimah,” Mr. Weasley said, “But that’s your inheritance from your parents, and---”

“I’m sure my parents would be entirely fine with me doing this,” Halimah said mulishly.

“I’m sure they would, but we’re not having this conversation right now,” Mrs. Weasley said, a note of sharpness in her voice.

“Please,” Halimah said, plopping the bag down in her lap, “Please just take it. We can also talk later but please, just let me do this one thing for you.” She tried to put a lot of meaning into the words: thanks for rescuing her, for letting her stay with them, for the clothes they had given to her, the love they had shown her…

Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley shared a glance, and after a moment, Mrs. Weasley nodded, and drew Halimah into a bone-crushing hug. Face flushed, Halimah quickly filled another bag for herself and got back into the cart. Ron gave her an inscrutable look, but the twins ruffled her hair and hugged her as well, Percy shook her hand, Mr. Weasley squeezed her shoulder, and Ginny gave her a small smile.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.

Halimah, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Halimah’s pocket was clamoring to be spent, so she bought three large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed longingly at a set of Chudley Cannons  in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until Halimah dragged him inside and bought it for him in his size. The shade of scarlet his face turned clashed horribly with the new robes. Hermione then dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door.

In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called  _ Prefects Who Gained Power _ .

“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,” Ron read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds  _ fascinating _ ...”

“Go away,” Percy snapped.

“ ’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all planned out...He wants to be Minister of Magic...” Ron told Halimah and Hermione in an undertone as they left Percy to it.

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

_ MAGICAL ME _

today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

 

“We can actually meet him and see what he’s like!” Hermione squealed. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist! Maybe he’ll have tips on what to focus on when we’re studying!”

Halimah had to admit that he was attractive-looking, but was not so sure that she would be asking for study tips. Ron, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and huffed.

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies...Don’t push, there...mind the books, now...”

Halimah, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 _ and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with the Grangers. Hermione’s parents smiled at them.

“Had a nice stroll?” Dr. Granger asked, her voice warm.

“Yep!” Halimah, Hermione, and Ron said.

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute...” Ginny rolled her eyes, looking exactly like Ron for a second.

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the  _ Daily Prophet _ —”

“Big deal,” muttered Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it. Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron — and then he saw Halimah. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It  _ can’t _ be Harry Potter?”

Halimah flinched. The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Halimah’s arm, and pulled her to the front. The crowd burst into applause. 

“Oh, my name’s not---I’m actually---Er---,” Halimah’s face burned as Lockhart shook her hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

Finally, Halimah managed to burst out, “MY NAME’S NOT HARRY, IT’S HALIMAH.” She was  _ tired  _ of being deadnamed, she was  _ tired _ of having to correct every stupid person who talked to her. She no longer found Lockhart at all attractive.

The crowd abruptly grew quiet, and Lockhart turned to look at her, still gripping her hand tightly, “I’m sorry? Isn’t that a  _ girl’s _ name?”

“Yeah, well, I  _ am _ a girl, so,” Halimah snapped, pulling her hand from Lockhart’s grasp.

Lockhart was still staring, “My word, so you believe yourself to be a girl? Well, let me be the first to say how very  _ feminine _ and  _ charming _ you are, young miss  _ Halimah _ Potter, the boy who turned into a girl!”

“I was never---”, Halimah started to say angrily, but Lockhart cut her off. What he was now saying was hardly better than when he had been deadnaming her! Why couldn’t people just treat her like a regular person?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! Harry Potter’s reintroduction to the magical world as Halimah Potter! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!

“When young  _ Halimah _ here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he---oh I’m SO very sorry, m’dear!--- _ she _ only wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present  _ her _ now, free of charge —” The crowd applauded again. “ _ She _ had no idea,” Lockhart continued, overemphasizing ever pronoun, and giving Halimah a little shake that made her glasses slip to the end of her nose, “that  _ she _ would shortly be getting much, much more than my book,  _ Magical Me _ .  _ She _ and  _ her _ schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the  _ real _ magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

The crowd cheered and clapped and Halimah found herself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, she managed to make her way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron. Her face was still burning, and she felt awful. She was going to have to put up with that man at school?

“You have these,” Halimah mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own —”

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Halimah had no trouble recognizing. The voice of the person that she least wanted to interact with after that excruciating scene. She straightened up and found herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer.

“Famous Harry---oh,  _ so very sorry _ \--- _ Halimah _ Potter,” said Malfoy, mimicking Lockhart. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page. Has to tell the whole wide world that he’s decided to pretend to be a girl, how  _ noble _ .”

“Leave her alone, she IS a girl, she didn’t want all that! The pompous idiot kept treating her like a show hippogriff!” said Ginny. It was the first time Halimah had seen her at all angry. She was glaring at Malfoy with daggers in her eyes.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” drawled Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books.

“Oh, it’s  _ you _ ,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Halimah here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”

Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy, but Halimah and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.

“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”

It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s shoulder, sneering in just the same way.

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. “All those raids...I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of  _ A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration _ .

“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of magic, Malfoy,” he said.

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to Dr. and Dr. Granger and Halimah, who were watching him defiantly. “The company you keep, Muggles and perverted little freaks, Weasley...and I thought your family could sink no lower —”

“Oh, I don’t think Arthur here is the low one,” said Dr. Granger cooly, and her husband nodded, putting a comforting hand on Halimah’s shoulder. Halimah’s fists tightened.

“Do not speak in my presence, Muggle,” Mr. Malfoy said coldly. The Grangers eyes flashed and they stepped forward, but then---

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the assistant, and then, louder than all —

“Break it up, there, gents, break it up —”

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an  _ Encyclopedia of Toadstools _ . He was still holding Ginny’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your father can give you —” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ ter — wealth and bigotry, that’s what it is — come on now — let’s get outta here.”

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Grangers clearly shaken, but proud, and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.

“Oh, that man, that  _ hate _ , but _ why _ , Arthur,  _ why _ ...nothing good can come of this,” she shook her head in disgust, then turned to the Grangers, “I’m so very sorry, I know what you must think of us---,”

“Oh believe me, I almost followed Arthur,” Dr. Granger said, his smile grim.

 

“He was  _ pleased _ ,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the  _ Daily Prophet _ if he’d be able to work the fight into his report — said it was all publicity —”

Halimah snorted, “That’s the guy who’s supposed to teach us? As if.”

It was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Halimah, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder.

They said good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley started them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face. Halimah and Ron quickly hugged Hermione goodbye, made plans to find each other at Platform 9 ¾ when they went back to Hogwarts, and turned to the fireplace.

Halimah took off her glasses and put them safely in her pocket before helping herself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn’t her favorite way to travel, especially when still shaking with anger at all she had witnessed that day.


	5. How Will-ow They Get to School?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah and Ron have to get creative to get to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I'm back, but not much different from the original in this one, just some added details! But hopefully planting the seeds for a *slightly* less reckless Halimah in future. We'll see. Maybe she'll be even *more* reckless. Who can say, really.

The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for Halimah’s liking. She was looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but her month at the Burrow had been the happiest of her life, even with the unpleasantness of their trip to Diagon Alley. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Ron when she thought of the Dursleys and the sort of welcome she could expect next time she turned up on Privet Drive.

On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a sumptuous dinner that included all of Halimah’s favorite things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding. Fred and George rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen with pink and purple stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and bed. It took Halimah a while to fall asleep, and she could hear the scratching of Ginny’s quill as she wrote or drew, which she’d been doing quite a bit since the shopping trip. Halimah thought that perhaps she was feeling anxious about her first term at Hogwarts and thought that maybe she should talk to her about it, but the next moment, she was fast asleep.

It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.

Halimah couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. She had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Halimah as he opened the trunk and showed her how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the back seat, where Halimah, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?” She and Ginny got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Halimah turning back for a last look at the house. She barely had time to wonder when she’d see it again when they were back — George had forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked that she’d left her diary. By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

“Molly, dear —”

“No, Arthur —”

“No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser —”

“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight —”

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr. Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the station. Halimah desperately had to use the bathroom and did so as fast as possible, running into the girl’s bathroom without even thinking about it. She rejoined the Weasleys at the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Halimah had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Weasley went next; Fred and George followed.

“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs. Weasley told Halimah and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone.

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said to Halimah.

Halimah made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely wedged on top of her trunk and wheeled her trolley around to face the barrier. She felt perfectly confident; this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and —

CRASH.

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ron’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Halimah was knocked off her feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think you’re doing?”

“Lost control of the trolley,” Halimah gasped, clutching her ribs as she got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

“Why can’t we get through?” Halimah hissed to Ron.

“I dunno —”

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself —”

Halimah looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds...nine seconds...

She wheeled her trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all her might. The metal remained solid.

Three seconds...two seconds...one second...

“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “The train’s left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?”

Halimah gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t given me pocket money ever, unless you count the one pound note I stole when I was ten.”

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.”

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Hedwig’s continuing screeches.

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said Halimah. “We’re attracting too much attention...” She felt very self-conscious and was beginning to think that some of the people were looking at her as much as her owl.  _ Do they know? _ She thought in a panic.

“Halimah!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”

“What about it?”

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

“But I thought —”

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy —”

“But your mum and dad...” said Halimah, pushing against the barrier again in the vain hope that it would give way. “How will they get home?”

“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not allowed to Apparate yet...”

“But Ron, how will they get the car from Hogwarts? And what’re McGonagall and Dumbledore and everyone going to say? We’re going to get in so much---”

Just then, Halimah saw a pinch-faced woman talking to a station guard, pointing directly at her, and then at the girl’s bathroom she had used minutes earlier.  _ Oh no. _

Halimah’s feeling of panic increased and suddenly she did not care about the consequences of taking the car once they reached Hogwarts. Sure, they might get in trouble, but the barrier  _ had _ sealed, after all, and she was sure Albus Dumbledore would find some way to get the car back to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

“Can you fly it?” she asked Ron hurriedly, quickly turning her cart. The woman and the security guard were now making their way through the crowd towards them.

“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express —”

They marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, Halimah keeping an eye on the woman and security guard. But they made it out of the station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was parked without further incident. Halimah let out the breath she’d been holding.

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk and they heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the front.

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the ignition, which evidently was a button in this magically-enhanced vehicle. Halimah stuck her head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty.

“Okay,” she said.

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished — and so did they. Halimah could feel the seat vibrating beneath her, hear the engine, feel her hands on her knees and her glasses on her nose, but for all she could see, she had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from her right.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Halimah, and Ron reappeared.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. “It’s faulty —”

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.

“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

“Now what?” said Halimah, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Ron.

“Dip back down again — quickly —”

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

“I can see it!” Halimah yelled. “Right ahead — there!”

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every half hour or so — hold on —”

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Ron.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn’t stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Halimah, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle. Halimah’s anxiety about the reactions of her teachers and the Weasleys had abated, especially now that she was on her way back to Hogwarts, where she wouldn’t have to deal with people like the Dursleys or that woman from the train station for a long, long time.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Halimah had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink. She and Ron had pulled off their sweaters, but Halimah’s tank top was sticking to the back of her seat, her bra straps were chafing her sweaty shoulders, and her glasses kept sliding down to the end of her sweaty nose. She had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another check on the train?”

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds. Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Halimah and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been this far before...”

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Halimah pulled her sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.

“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Halimah, “not far now,” and he patted the dashboard nervously.

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.

“There!” Halimah shouted, making Ron and Hedwig jump. “Straight ahead!”

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on —”

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Halimah found herself gripping the edges of her seat very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of her window, Halimah saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.

“Come  _ on _ ,” Ron muttered.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Ron put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall.

“ _ Noooooo _ !” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket—

“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them —

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Halimah bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late —

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Halimah’s head where she had hit the windshield; and to her right, Ron let out a low, despairing groan.

“Are you okay?” Halimah said urgently.

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my wand —”

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

Halimah opened her mouth to say she was sure they’d be able to mend it up at the school, but she never even got started. At that very moment, something hit her side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending her lurching sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

“What’s happen — ?”

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Halimah looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving —

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Halimah’s lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch.

“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted. 

“ _ Reverse _ !” Halimah yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car —”

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Halimah felt her seat tip sideways: Next thing she knew she was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told her that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. “Dad’ll kill me!”

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust.

“Can you  _ believe _ our luck?” said Ron miserably, bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

“Come on,” said Halimah wearily, “we’d better get up to the school...I’m sure it’s gonna get worse, might as well get it over with.”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. “Hey — Halimah — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”

Halimah hurried over and, together, she and Ron peered in at the Great Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Halimah saw a long line of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall. Ginny was among them, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Halimah well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in her ear. For a few horrible seconds she had feared that the hat was going to put her in Slytherin, the House that had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other — but she had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys. Last term, Halimah, Hermione, and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven years.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head. Halimah’s eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Halimah saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

“Hang on...” Halimah muttered to Ron. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table... Where’s Snape?”

Professor Severus Snape was Halimah’s least favorite teacher. Halimah also happened to be Snape’s least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except the students from his own House (Slytherin), Snape taught Potions.

“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully.

“Maybe he’s  _ left _ ,” said Halimah, “because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job  _ again _ !”

“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him —”

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”

Halimah spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told Halimah she and Ron were in very deep trouble.

“Follow me,” said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Halimah and Ron followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Halimah didn’t really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.

“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Harry---oh,  _ sorry _ \---  _ Halimah  _ Potter and the faithful sidekick, Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys? Sorry,  _ children _ ?”

Halimah’s anger flared, “No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it —”

“Silence!” said Snape coldly. “What have you done with the car?”

Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Snape had given Halimah the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, she understood, as Snape unrolled today’s issue of the  _ Evening Prophet _ .

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. He began to read aloud: “ ‘Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower...at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing...Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police...Six or seven Muggles in all.’ I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear...his own son...”

Halimah felt as though she’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the violent tree’s larger branches. If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car...she hadn’t thought of that...

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Snape went on.

“That tree did more damage to us than we —” Ron blurted out.

“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power. You will wait here.”

Halimah and Ron stared at each other, white-faced. Halimah didn’t feel hungry anymore. She now felt extremely sick. She tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape’s desk. If Snape had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than Snape, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him. Halimah had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either she had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or she had never seen her this angry before. She raised her wand the moment she entered; Halimah and Ron both flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.

“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

“— so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.”

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Halimah.

Halimah gaped at her. Now she’d said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done.

“I — I didn’t think —”

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is  _ obvious _ .”

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Halimah’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave. He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and Halimah suddenly found herself wishing she and Ron were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, “Please explain why you did this.”

It would have been better if he had shouted. Halimah hated the disappointment in his voice. For some reason, she was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to her knees. She told Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though she and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. She knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car. When Halimah had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice.

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall.

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.

Halimah looked quickly at Dumbledore.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you.”

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “Professor Dumbledore, these bo- _ students _ have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of this nature —”

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these students’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore her responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample —”

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Halimah and Ron as he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted —”

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, good,” said Ron.

“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Halimah cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should it?” she finished, watching her anxiously.

Professor McGonagall gave her a piercing look, but she was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor, Miss Potter,” she said, and Halimah’s heart lightened considerably. “But you will both get a detention.”

It was better than Halimah had expected. As for Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing. Halimah knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed her flat.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitories,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.”

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low whistle.

“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.

“So did I,” said Halimah, taking one, too.

“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them.” He swallowed and took another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the barrier?”

Halimah shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from now on, though,” she said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the feast...”

“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely. “Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said as they approached.

“Er —” said Halimah.

They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them.

“ _ There _ you are! Where  _ have _ you been? The most ridiculous rumors — someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car —”

“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Halimah assured her.

“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor McGonagall.

“We already got a lecture from Snape, McGonagall,  _ and  _ Dumbledore,” said Ron impatiently, “please just tell us the new password.”

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’ ” said Hermione impatiently, “but that’s not the point —”

Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the Lady in Pink swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Halimah and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble in after them.

“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan. “Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years —”

“Good for you,” said a fifth year Halimah had never spoken to; someone was patting her on the back as though she’d just won a marathon; Fred and George pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?”

Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but Halimah could see one person who didn’t look happy at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get near enough to start telling them off. Halimah nudged Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron got the point at once.

“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two of them started pushing their way toward the doors on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircases and the dormitories.

“ ’Night,” Halimah said to Ron and hurried after Hermione, who was wearing a scowl just like Percy’s.

Halimah suddenly felt guilty as stared at Hermione’s back on the climb up to the dormitory. Stealing the car  _ had _ been incredibly reckless, and she and Ron had had no idea what trouble it might cause Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. 

“Look, Hermione,---” she began, as they pushed into the dormitory. Parvati, Lavender, and Sally-Ann were all still in the common room. “The barrier at Platform 9 ¾, it locked, we couldn’t get through, and we panicked. I dunno, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Hermione sighed as she began unpacking her trunk and pulling out her pyjamas, “That’s the thing, isn’t it? It  _ always _ seems like a good idea at the time.”

Halimah had no idea what to say to that, and she stayed awake long after Hermione had fallen asleep, and her other roommates had come in and gone to bed.


	6. Gilderoy Lock-Fart, Amiright?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah deals with the most infuriating professor she's ever met, but also makes progress on something she's always felt she was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW MISGENDERING
> 
> Lockhart is just the grossest sort of "I'm supportive but really it's all just about me" person.

The next day, Halimah didn’t have the chance to feel any better. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Halimah and Hermione had come down together, and Hermione was still acting slightly stiff which told Halimah that she was still disapproving of the way that she and Ron had arrived. 

Ron grunted when they sat down and Hermione sniffed, which caused Ron to glare at her. Neville Longbottom, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Halimah had ever met.

“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a few things I forgot.”

Halimah had only just started her porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers.

“Errol!” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.

“Oh, no —” Ron gasped.

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger.

“It’s not that — it’s  _ that _ .”

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Halimah, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.

“What’s the matter?” said Halimah.

“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly.

“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was  _ horrible _ .”

Halimah looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

“What’s a Howler?” she said.

But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners.

“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes —”

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split second later, Halimah knew why. She thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

“—  **_STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SUR-_ **

**_PRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE_ ** —”

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.

“—  **_LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HALIMAH COULD BOTH HAVE DIED_ ** —”

Halimah had been wondering when her name was going to crop up. She tried very hard to look as though she couldn’t hear the voice that was making her eardrums throb.

“—  **_ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME_ ** .  **_AND HALIMAH, I KNOW YOU’RE PROBABLY LISTENING TO THIS AS WELL, AND I KNOW THAT WE HAVE NO AUTHORITY OVER YOU, BUT WE ARE VERY DISAPPOINTED. GINNY DEAR, CONGRATULATIONS ON GETTING INTO GRYFFINDOR!_ ** ”

A ringing silence fell as Halimah flushed and buried her head in her hands and Ginny went fully scarlet. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron’s hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Halimah and Ron sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Hermione closed _ Voyages with Vampires _ , which she had started reading as soon as she sat down to breakfast, and looked down at the top of Ron’s head.

“Well, I don’t know what you two expected, but you —”

“Don’t tell me we deserved it,” snapped Ron.

Halimah pushed her porridge away. Her insides were burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for her over the summer...Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe she  _ was _ too reckless sometimes.

But she had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules.

Halimah took hers and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. However, instead of moving on, Professor McGonagall stopped next to Halimah. Halimah looked up at her nervously.

“I assume that you remember our discussion of personalized Transfigurations, Miss Potter?” Professor McGonagall asked, peering over her square spectacles. 

Halimah’s heart swelled, “Yes, professor!”  
The Head of House gave a small smile, “Good. Please meet Madam Pomfrey and myself in the Hospital Wing during lunch, and we will go over the beginning of your treatments.” Halimah nodded and Professor McGonagall went over to chivvy the first years towards the correct classrooms.

Halimah (feeling far more high-spirited), Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Halimah, Hermione, and Ron had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Halimah spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

“Oh,  _ hello _ there!” he called, beaming around at the assembled students. “Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don’t want you running away with the idea that I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels...”

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self. There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Halimah caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. She was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.

“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if  _ he’s _ a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?”

Professor Sprout scowled and said, “ _ She _ can be a few minutes late but---,” but Lockhart interrupted her, “That’s the ticket,” and then closed the greenhouse door in her face.

“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. “Harry, Harry, _ Harry _ .”

Halimah gritted her teeth.

“My  _ name _ ,” she growled, “Is  _ Halimah _ . I already told you.”

Lockhart looked like a wounded child, “Of  _ course _ ! I am so very sorry! I assumed that you only required that name in public, but I  _ completely _ understand! I’ve made several  _ transgendered _ acquaintances and I  _ know _ how important names can be! It shan’t happen again!

“But,  _ Halimah _ , well, when I heard — well, of course, it was  _ all _ my fault. Could have kicked myself.”

Halimah had no idea what he was talking about and was fuming at his response to her correction. She was about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a  _ car _ to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d done it. Stood out a mile. Halimah, Halimah,  _ Halimah _ .”

It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn’t talking.

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do it again.”

“Oh, no, Professor, I don’t —”

“Halimah, Halimah, Halimah” said Lockhart again, reaching out and grasping her shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was  _ bound _ to go to your head — but see here, young m---Oh, dear me, there I go,  _ misgendering _ you again---young  _ woman  _ you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” He glanced at the lightning scar on Halimah’s forehead. “I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Halimah, it’s a start.”

He gave Halimah a hearty wink and strode off. Halimah stood stunned and angry for a few seconds, then, remembering she was supposed to be in the greenhouse, she opened the door and slid inside.

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench. When Halimah had taken her place between Ron and Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into the air.

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout.

“The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Halimah’s glasses as it shot up again.

“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said promptly.

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young.”

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Halimah, who didn’t have the slightest idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the Mandrake.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t a completely falling apart.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on.”

Halimah snapped the earmuffs over her ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put a pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Halimah let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and utterly strange baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of their head. They had pale green, mottled skin, and were clearly bawling at the top of their lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying them in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill  _ yet _ ,” she said calmly as though she’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.

“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Halimah knew by sight but had never spoken to.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking Halimah’s hand. “Know who you are, of course, the famous Har-er Halimah Potter...And you’re Hermione Granger — always top in everything,”  (Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) “— and Ron Weasley. Wasn’t that your flying car?”

Ron didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin happily as they began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. Halimah, Hermione, and Ron exchanged glances and Halimah snorted, “Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.

“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family...”

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Halimah spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly feisty one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Halimah, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Halimah had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of her head during the summer. She was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all she managed to do was give her beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding her wand.

Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.

Halimah was relieved to hear the lunch bell. Her brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except her and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk. “Stupid — useless — thing —”

“Write home about getting a new one,” Halimah suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker, “I can give you some gold, if you need.”

“Thanks, Halimah, but hell no. Oh, yeah, and I’m sure I’d get another Howler back, if I did,” said Ron, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. “ ‘ _ It’s your own fault your wand got snapped — _ ’ ”

They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration. Halimah gratefully disengaged herself from the burgeoning argument to go to the Hospital Wing for her meeting with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall.

 

****

 

When she arrived in the Hospital Wing, she found Professor McGonagall reading over a sheaf of parchment notes and Madam Pomfrey bustling around laying out funny-smelling poultices and bottles of brilliantly colored liquids.

“Ah, Miss Potter, there you are, come in, come in,” Madam Pomfrey said cheerfully, directing Halimah over to a plushy chair that seemed like it could be adjusted for height and angle.

Halimah, who was both extremely excited and nervous, took a seat. Professor McGonagall set down her notes and gave Halimah a brief smile.

“Potter, good, good. Now, you’ve read through the manual we sent last year, yes?”

Halimah swallowed, “Yes, professor, I did, and I have some ideas, based on what was in it.”

“Excellent, I’m glad you do, that will make the process go much more smoothly as we progress from spell to spell.”   
And they began. The manual had warned of some discomfort, and Halimah definitely had to stifle a few yelps as Professor McGonagall worked immensely complicated incantations and Madam Pomfrey applied poultices at the correct times. She could feel her body shifting, her skin stretching and rearranging to accomodate for her adjusted physiology. After a solid half-hour of wand work, Professor McGonagall looked exhausted, but her steely demeanor broke at the tears in Halimah’s eyes and the smile on her face.

“That’s all for now, Miss Potter. As we said in your manual, this will be a lengthy process in order to guarantee its permanence and proper form, but for now your anatomy should be sufficiently Transfigured.”  
Halimah’s voice broke, “Thank you, professor, for everything, and thank you, Madam Pomfrey.”

The two older witches exchanged smiles, “You’re quite welcome, Potter. Now, remember to apply this salve once a week, it should recharge the Transformation until we do our next session after winter break. And if anything begins to hurt, please inform us immediately.”  
Halimah promised that she would and then hurried off to grab a bite of lunch before her afternoon classes.

 

****

Both Hermione and Ron were very happy and excited for Halimah (though Ron went scarlet at the mention of “anatomy”, which caused both girls to roll their eyes and giggle), but this led to further discussion of Transfiguration and Hermione and Ron began sniping at each other again.

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Halimah, hastily changing the subject.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at once.

“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”

Hermione snatched the schedule back, her face flushing.

They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Halimah let Ron get a little ahead of them and then said, “Hermione,  _ why _ ?”

“Oh, Halimah, it’s--He’s--well, I mean to say, he’s done so much, hasn’t he?”  
Halimah snorted, “I guess, but he’s _so_ pompous! And all that stuff he does around me, pretending to be all supportive but actually just making it about him? C’mon, Hermione, since when have you ever liked people like that?”

Hermione huffed and sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in  _ Voyages with Vampires _ again. Halimah and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Halimah became aware that she was being closely watched. Looking up, she saw the very small, mousy-haired boy she’d seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Halimah as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Halimah looked at him, he went bright red.

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too.”

“Uh, hi Colin. My name’s actually Halimah,” she tried very hard not to roll her eyes.

“Oh! Um, okay, Halimah. D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.

“A picture?” Halimah repeated blankly.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked Halimah’s hairline and she was very grateful that her bangs had grown out some) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Halimah — “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

“ _ Signed photos _ ? You’re giving out  _ signed photos _ , Potter?”

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his muscly and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “ _ Harry _ Potter’s giving out signed photos!”

“No, I’m not,” said Halimah angrily, his fists clenching. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re just jealous, and her name is  _ Halimah _ ,” piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck.

“ _ Jealous _ ?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. “Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.  _ Or _ pretending that you’re a girl to get attention.”

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.

“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t want to start any trouble or you mommy’ll have to come and take you away from school.” He put on a shrill, piercing voice. “ _ If you put another toe out of line _ —”

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this. 

“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked Malfoy. “It’d be worth more than his family’s whole house —”

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut  _ Voyages with Vampires _ with a snap and whispered, “Look out!”

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed photos?”

Halimah started to speak but she was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again,  _ Halimah _ ! And how  _ fetching _ you look with this hair style! Though I must say, it  _ does _ make you look a little tomboyish, doesn’t it?”

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation and anger, Halimah saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.

“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.”

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Halimah, who was wishing she knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side.

“A word to the wise, Harry, oh, beg pardon, Halimah,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much...”

Deaf to Halimah’s furious mutters, Lockhart swept her down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Halimah, to be frank.  _ Especially _ when you’re  _ already _ pushing your gender thing so much! There may well come a time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack of photos handy wherever you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I don’t think you’re quite there yet.”

“I’m not  _ pushing _ my gender, I just want people to actually respect it!” Halimah snarled.

Lockhart didn’t even seem to hear.

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let Halimah go at last. Halimah yanked her robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where she busied herself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of her, so that she could avoid looking at the real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Halimah.

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron. “You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or they’ll be starting a Halimah Potter fan club.”

“Shut up,” snapped Halimah, “And Ginny would never.” The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Halimah Potter fan club.”

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes — start — now!” 

Halimah looked down at her paper and read:

 

  1. _What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?_
  2. _What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?_
  3. _What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?_



 

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

 

  1. _When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_



 

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!”

He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Parvati and Lavender, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Dean and Seamus kept exchanging glances and snickering. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart very closely, an inscrutable expression on her face, but she started when he said her name.

“...but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione raised her hand immediately.

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —”

“Please sir, may I ask a question?” Hermione’s voice rang out clearly.

Lockhart stopped, “Er, yes, Miss Granger?”  
“What was the point of that quiz, Professor?”

Lockhart’s dazzling smile faltered for the briefest instant, “Well, like I said, to see how well you all had read the books, and--,”

“But all of those questions were about meaningless things, sir, weren’t they? Why not ask questions about the actual Defensive magic you used?”  
Lockhart swallowed, “Look, Miss Granger, you got full marks, I’m not really sure what you’re getting at. Now, we really must be getting on with the lesson!” He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

“But sir--,”

But Lockhart spoke over her, “Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to the magical community! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

In spite of herself, Halimah leaned around her pile of books for a better look at the cage. Hermione sniffed and looked exceedingly put out, but still kept her eyes locked on the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped snickering now, and Parvati and Lavender were holding their breath. Neville was cowering in his front row seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

“Yes,” he said dramatically. “ _Freshly caught_ _Cornish pixies_.” 

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror.

“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very —  _ dangerous _ , are they?” Seamus choked.

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what you make of them!” And he opened the cage.

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now — round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, “ _ Peskipiksi Pesternomi _ !”

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight

of Halimah, Hermione, and Ron, who were almost at the door, and said, “Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage.” He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

“Can you _ believe him _ ?” roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.

“He has no idea what he’s doing,” said Hermione bitterly, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.

“You can say that again. What’s he playing at?” said Halimah, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. “Hermione, it really took that idiotic quiz to convince you —”

“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read his books — look at all those amazing things he’s done — I just thought, in person...but you’re right. He’s an awful teacher, and useless, you were right, okay?”

“Bet he hasn’t done anything of the things in those books,” Ron muttered.


	7. Slurs and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah learns more about bigotry in the magical world and has a very disturbing encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW T-SLUR AND ABUSE MENTION
> 
> Okay, not much different from canon here, but trying to plant the seeds of divergence later in book 2!

Halimah spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever she saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Halimah’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Halimah?” six or seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, however exasperated Halima sounded when she said it.

Hedwig was still angry with Halimah about the disastrous car journey and Ron’s wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting tiny Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Halimah was quite glad to reach the weekend. She, Hermione, and Ron were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Halimah, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than she would have liked by Angelina Johnson, one of the Chasers of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“Whassamatter?” said Halimah groggily.

“Quidditch practice,” said Angelina, rolling her eyes. “Wood’s on the warpath this year, come on, he’ll throw a bloody fit if we’re not down on the pitch in ten.”

Halimah squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that she was awake, she couldn’t understand how she could have slept through the racket the birds were making.

“It’s the crack of dawn,” Halimah croaked, “What’s he playing at?”

“He’s Wood,” said Angelina, rubbing her face tiredly, “He’s only got two more shots at the Quidditch Cup. Now _come on_ , Alicia and Katie are already on their way down.”  
Halimah groaned and stood up, quickly changed into her Quidditch robes, and put her hair into a messy braid. She quickly scribbled a note for Hermione explaining to her and Ron where she was. Angelina was tapping her foot anxiously, and as soon as Halimah had tied on her boots, she dragged her down the stairs and out of the Common Room, their brooms on their shoulders.

They had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind them and Colin Creevey came dashing down the other spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand. Halimah stifled a moan as Angelina looked on with impatience tinged with amusement.

“I heard those red-headed twins saying your name on the stairs, Halimah! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I wanted to show you —”

Halimah looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under her nose.

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Halimah recognized as her own. She was pleased to see that her photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Halimah watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.

“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.

“Colin,” Halimah sighed, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted, other than Angelina, who had just stifled a snort. “Look, Colin, I’ll sign  _ one  _ picture if you really want me to, okay, but  _ please _ don’t spread it around that I did. Especially to Lockhart. But I’ve gotta do it after practice, okay?”

She climbed through the portrait hole after Angelina.

“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!”

Colin scrambled through the hole after her.

“It’ll be pretty boring,” Halimah said, but Colin ignored her, his face shining with excitement.

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Halimah? Weren’t you?” said Colin, trotting alongside her. “You must be brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?”

Halimah exchanged glances with Angelina, who was struggling to maintain a straight face. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.

“Yeah, I was a pretty lucky to be allowed to play in my first year. And brooms don’t make everything, Colin.”

“Oh, come off it,” Angelina scoffed, “Having a Nimbus definitely doesn’t  _ hurt _ .”

Halimah shrugged, “I mean, yeah, but you’ve done some amazing things on the school brooms, I’ve  _ seen _ you.”

“You’re just saying that,” Angelina said, but she was smiling and she ruffled Halimah’s hair.

“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?”

“Yes,” said Halimah, with only the slightest annoyance, “They’re called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley, those twins you mentioned earlier, are the Gryffindor Beaters.”

“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Halimah.

“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team, Angelina here is one of ours. They throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch — they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.”

“And the fourth ball —”

“— is the Golden Snitch,” said Angelina, “and it’s very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns their team an extra hundred and fifty points.”

“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colin in awe.

“Yes,” said Halimah as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the Keeper, too. They guard the goal posts. That’s it, really.”

But Colin didn’t stop questioning them all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Halimah and Angelina only shook him off when they reached the changing rooms; Colin called after them in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Halimah! Nice to meet you, Angelina!” and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chaser, Katie Bell was yawning and waved at Angelina and Halimah as they walked.

“There you are, yout two, what kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference...”

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different-colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he began to snore.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Halimah sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on.

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Halimah from a wistful fantasy about what she could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is that clear? Any questions?”

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?”

Wood wasn’t pleased.

“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control —”

Halimah shifted guiltily in her seat. She had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

“So this year, we train harder than ever before...Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.

They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Halimah walked onto the field, she saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.

“Haven’t even started,” said Halimah, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.”

She mounted her broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped her face, waking her far more effectively than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. She soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.

“What’s that clicking noise?” called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.

Halimah looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

“Look this way, Halimah! This way!” he cried shrilly.

“Who’s that?” said Fred.

“First year. He, uh, likes taking pictures,” Halimah said awkwardly, putting on a spurt of speed that took her as far away as possible from Colin and his camera.

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s that first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program.”

“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Halimah quickly.

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said George.

“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily.

“Because they’re here in person,” said George, pointing.

Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked the field for today! We’ll see about this!”

Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Halimah, Fred, and George followed.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!”

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man. Halimah scowled at them.

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape.  _ ‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker. _ ’ ”

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?”

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.”

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early morning sun.

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps” — he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives — “sweeps the board with them.”

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking broadly, his dark eyes flashing. 

“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.”

Hermione and Ron were crossing the grass to see what was going on. 

“What’s happening?” Ron asked Halimah. “Why aren’t you playing? And what’s _ he _ doing here?”

He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy, smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.”

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.

“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.”

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.

Halimah knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “ _ How dare you! _ ”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Malfoy’s face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’s wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” yelled Hermione.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to know what to do to help him.

“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said Halimah to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up by the arms.

“What happened, Halimah? What happened? Is he ill? But you can cure him, can’t you?” Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled down his front.

“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera. “Can you hold him still, Halimah?”

“Colin, would you want someone taking pictures of you while you were puking slugs??” said Halimah angrily, “Get out of the way,  _ please _ .” She and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium as Fred and George began yelling at the Slytherin team. Halimah heard Angelina mentioning getting Professor McGonagall as they made their way across the grounds towards the edge of the forest.

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right in a minute — almost there —” 

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.

“Quick, behind here,” Halimah hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed. 

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one — I’ll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!” And he strode away toward the castle.

Halimah waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front door. They knocked urgently.

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expres- sion brightened when he saw who it was.

“Bin wonderin’ when you lot’d come ter see me — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again —”

Halimah and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s slug problem, which Halimah hastily explained as she lowered Ron into a chair.

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of him. “Get ’em all up, Ron.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand —”

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Halimah.

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Halimah asked, scratching Fang’s ears.

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Halimah looked at him in surprise, though she agreed with him wholeheartedly. Hermione, however, nodded, and said in an angry voice, ”I don’t know how he got a teaching position in the first place. He doesn’t seem to have a single idea what he’s doing, and I don’t see how we’re supposed to learn  _ anything _ from him whatsoever. His books are interesting, yes, and there’s some pretty impressive Defensive magic he’s done, but it all seems off, somehow. I’m surprised Dumbledore even interviewed him.”

“He was the on’y person who responded to Professor Dumbledore’s advertisement, t’be honest,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the DADA job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on, see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No one’s lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter curse?”

“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been really bad, because everyone went wild.”

“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her ‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid —”

 

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.

“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.

“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course —”

“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really foul slur for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards — like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure-blood. People like them, they’re all rich, and they think that the only way to hold on to power is through blood purity.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all. Look at Goyle — he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.”

“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’ do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione bury her face in her hands, her cheeks flushed. 

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most magical folks these days are half-blood or Muggle-born anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles there’d be huge amounts of inbreeding and other shit. And in any case, it shouldn’t matter, magical powers will always crop up in Muggle families, and it’s absurd to demonize any part of our community!”

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

“That’s awful,” Halimah said angrily, “And I thought _I_ had it bad with Malfoy calling me freak and tranny every other day.”  
“Neither of us should have to deal with any of it,” Hermione said sharply, “Malfoy’s just a bigot. Him and that whole team.”

“I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble.”

Halimah would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but she couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee had cemented her jaws together.

“Halimah,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I haven’t got one?”

Furious, Halimah wrenched her teeth apart. 

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” she said hotly. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around —”

But then she saw that Hagrid was laughing.

“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Halimah genially on the back and sending her face first into the table. “I knew yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”

“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Halimah, sitting up and rubbing her chin.

“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “He tried to say some nonsense about your gender and seeking attention and I pretended ter not undrestand. An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’ he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as Ron reappeared.

“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”

“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as Halimah and Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Halimah had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.

“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily. “Fer the Halloween feast...should be big enough by then.”

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Halimah.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.

“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help —”

Halimah noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. Halimah had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, she had the strong impression that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Halimah had never found out why — any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. “Met her jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid looked sideways at Halimah, his beard twitching. “Seemed mighty excited about her time with ye this summer,” He winked at Halimah. “If yeh ask me, she wouldn’ say no ter a signed —”

“Oh, shut up,” said Halimah. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground was sprayed with slugs.

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Halimah had only had one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, she was keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter — Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions this evening.”

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.

“ _ You _ will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was bitter and always angry, feared by most in the school.

“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, too?” said Halimah desperately.

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.

“Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.”

Halimah and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a  _ well-you-did-break- school-rules _ sort of expression. Halimah didn’t enjoy her shepherd’s pie as much as she’d thought. Both she and Ron felt they’d got the worse deal.

“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily. “No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.” Hermione sniffed derisively.

“I’d swap anytime,” said Halimah hollowly. “I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys, they love making me clean everything.” She ignored Ron and Hermione’s looks of pity and concern, “Answering Lockhart’s fan mail...he’ll be a nightmare...”

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Halimah was dragging her feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart’s office. She gritted her teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at her.

“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in,  _ Halimah _ , come in —”

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk, next to a very large award that read “ _ MOST OPEN-MINDED MEMBER” _ .

“Thought you’d be interested in that, chap,” Lockhart said, smiling widely. Halimah didn’t even bother to call out his use of “chap”, “I know your sort of people care a great deal about that.”  
Halimah stared. _Her_ sort of people? The absolute bloody nerve...

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart continued, as though this was a huge treat. “This first one’s to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine —”

The minutes snailed by. Halimah let Lockhart’s voice wash over her, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then she caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend,  Halimah,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that,” and once, “You might do well to hide your, uh, peculiarities. People don’t want the real you, they want someone they can believe in!” Halimah had to struggle not to snap her quill in half.

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching her. Halimah moved her aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to leave, Halimah thought miserably, please let it be nearly time...

And then she heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart’s prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

“ _ Awake...come...come to me...Must rip...Must tear you...Must killl... _ ”

Halimah gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street.

“ _ What?  _ Stop!” she said loudly. The voice broke off mid-hiss.

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!”

“No,” said Halimah frantically. “That voice!”

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”

“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”

Lockhart was looking at Halimah in high astonishment.

“What are you talking about, Halimah? Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Halimah didn’t answer. She was straining her ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling her she mustn’t expect a treat like this every time she got

detention. Feeling dazed, Halimah left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty, save for Hermione, who looked up at her when she sat down in the chair next to her.

“Halimah, how-are you okay? You look scared,” Hermione’s voice was full of concern.

Halimah just shook her head, “Not scared. Weirded out. I dunno. Maybe scared. Tell you when Ron gets here.”

This did not assuage Hermione’s concern, but she didn’t press. Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the half-lit room.

“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking onto a sofa. “Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a

Special Award for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off...How was it with Lockhart?”

Keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard by any stray people going to the bathroom, Halimah told Hermione and Ron exactly what she had heard.

“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron, frowning. “D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it — even someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”

“And it just...stopped when you said ‘stop’? That’s very odd.” said Hermione, concern still in her voice.

“I’m know,” said Halimah sharply, staring out the window. “I don’t get it either.”

“There must be some explanation,” said Hermione with conviction, “We’ll do some research tomorrow.”


	8. I Went To Nearly-Headless Nick's Deathday Party and All I Got Was the Lousy Suspicion of the Entire School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW MILD TRANSPHOBIA, ABUSE MENTION
> 
> Sorry it's taking so long to update every time. I feel so strongly that Halimah would be furious when she learns that Filch does so much without magic and is always given the short stick, and also would be enraged when she discovers about the Hogwarts house elves. We gonna be MUCH more forward with elvish liberation in this pic, folx.

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Halimah celebrated her first Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (since discovering that her parents were Jewish the previous year) with the other Jewish students at Hogwarts, including her roommate, Sally-Ann Perks, and Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw. Hermione and Ron also participated, helping Halimah and the others prepare rugelach and getting Halimah water whenever she needed it during her fast. Madam Pomfrey was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood’s enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Halimah was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a happy practice session. Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

As Halimah squelched along the deserted corridor she came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as she was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, “...don’t fulfill their requirements...half an inch, if that...”

“Hello, Nick,” said Halimah.

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Halimah could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

“So do you,” said Halimah, pushing her dripping bangs out of her eyes.

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance...It’s not as though I really wanted to join...Thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —”

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”

“Oh — yes,” said Halimah, who was obviously supposed to agree.

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However —” Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

 

“  _ ‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements.  _

_ With very best wishes,  _

_ Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’ ” _

 

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.

“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Halimah! Most people would think that’s good and beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore.”

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”

“No,” said Halimah. “Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly —”

The rest of Halimah’s sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near her ankles. She looked down and found herself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

“You’d better get out of here, Halimah,” said Nick quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place —”

“Right,” said Halimah, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Halimah’s right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Halimah’s Quidditch robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”

So Halimah waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. 

As they walked, Halimah cleared her throat, “Er, Mr. Filch?”

Filch just grunted.

“Er, I’m sorry I got the floors dirty, I know you have a lot of work and all---,”  
Filch snorted, “You don’t know the half of it, girl, and apologies won’t do nothing.”

Halimah didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t like Filch, of course, hardly any of the students could stand him, but hearing about just how much work he had to do for no thanks reminded her vividly of her experiences with the Dursleys, particularly in the past summer.

Halimah had never been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Halimah winced, and her feelings of sympathy and guilt grew. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Halimah could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies...frog brains...rat intestines...I’ve had enough of it...make an _ example _ ...where’s the form...yes...”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“Name...Halimah Potter. Crime...”

“I can help clean it!” burst out Halimah.

“Oh, sure, you’ll say you’ll help! But I know your type, girl, don’t make promises you won’t keep!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering at the end of his nose. “Crime...befouling the castle...suggested sentence...”

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Halimah, who waited with bated breath for her sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have you!”

And without a backward glance at Halimah, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him. Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Halimah didn’t much like Peeves, either, but couldn’t help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Halimah. She still felt bad for the man, though, and began thinking vaguely of ways to address his clearly taxing workload. Thinking hard on it, she’d never see him use magical cleaning methods, the likes of which Mr. and Mrs. Weasley used frequently. Why was that?

Thinking that she should probably wait for Filch to come back, Halimah sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from her half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. Despite her warmer-than-usual feelings toward the caretaker, Halimah’s curiosity overwhelmed her and she picked up the envelope and read:

 

**_KWIKSPELL_ **

 

_ A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic _

 

Intrigued, Halimah flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said:

 

_ Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? _

_ There is an answer! _

_ Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method! _

**_Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:_ **

_ “I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!” _

**_Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:_ **

_ “My brother used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning him into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!” _

 

Fascinated, Halimah thumbed through the rest of the envelope’s contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Was this the answer to the question she had just been asking herself? Did this mean he was bad at magic? And he had to clean the whole castle by himself, still? Halimah was just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told her Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Halimah threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet —”

His eyes fell on Halimah and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Halimah realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Halimah started to speak but Filch held up a hand and hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.

Halimah hestitated.

“WELL?” Filch’s voice was tinged with panic.

“Yes, I did,” Halimah blurted, “But it’s, I mean, I wouldn’t ever tell---”

Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together.

“We may waive — that is to say--- private--- for someone else---be that as it may — however —”

Halimah was staring at him in concern. His eyes were getting redder, and his voice began to trail off. He seemed to deflate and fell heavily into his chair. Cautiously, Halimah approached the desk.

“Sir? I---do you get _any_ help, with any of your duties?”  
Filch looked up at her inscrutably, but didn’t say anything, so she continued.

“It’s just, if you’re having to do all of this alone, without magic, I, er, it’s not fair, is it? I could see if some other students…” She trailed off, unsure of where she was going with this. She didn’t want to spend her free hours cleaning the castle, but at the same time, after the abuses the Dursleys had wreaked on her, she couldn’t see someone in a similar situation and  _ not _ try to help.

Filch considered her, “Help? Oh, there’s help, for some tasks. The elves.”

Halimah frowned, “What do you mean, elves?”

“Never you mind about that, can’t have students messing around. Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word of that letter — not that --- that is, if you ever did find some students who --- no — go now, I have to write up Peeves’ report — go —”

Amazed at her luck and simultaneously confused and concerned about what she had read and just heard from Filch, Halimah sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. What had Filch meant about elves? Surely there weren’t house elves  _ here _ ?

“Halimah! Halimah! Did it work?”

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Halimah could see a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height. One of its doors hung by a single hinge, and one of its legs had fallen off.

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract him —”

“Was that you?” said Halimah. “Yeah, it worked, I didn’t get detention. Thanks! But Filch did say, er, some weird things.”

“Oh?” Nick said, with polite disinterest.

“Yeah, first about how much work he, uh, has, and something about elves?”

“Ah, yes, Filch does most of his cleaning alone, and doesn’t use magic,” Nick said, somewhat carelessly, “And whatever he misses, the house elves take care of.”

Halimah stopped in her tracks, “So there  _ are _ house elves at Hogwarts?”

Nick gave her a strange look, “Oh yes, Halimah, have been since the school started, a thousand years ago. Why is that important?”

Halimah had clenched her fists, “So we’re all...we all...it’s all slave labor?? And the professors, Dumbledore, they’re all  _ okay with that _ ?” Her voice was shaking.

“Why, yes. Halimah, are you okay? It’s quite a normal set-up, you know, house elves think it the highest honor to maintain important buildings such as these, from what I’ve seen the Hogwarts house elves simply  _ love _ it here.”

Halimah’s anger was not abated, “I’ve met a house elf, and he didn’t seem  _ happy _ to serve anyone! He was s-scared, and had to  _ hurt _ himself whenever he did anything wr-wrong.” Her eyes were filled with furious tears, and she rubbed them away in frustration.

Nick seemed like he didn’t know what to say, “Er, well. There are certainly---that is, well, it is a situation that I’ve never questioned myself. I am, uh, sorry for distressing you so.”

Halimah wiped her nose and snorted, “I just guess being magic doesn’t change anything, there’s still hatred and racism and freaking  _ slavery _ . I just wish more people could, I dunno, do something about it.”

Nick paused and then nodded, “I suppose you are also referring to the incident between Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy?” At Halimah’s look of surprise, he waved a hand, “The Bloody Baroness made mention of it, evidently she gave the Malfoy boy quite the talking to. He was so scared he couldn’t fall asleep that night, apparently.” 

Halimah snickered. It served the little bigot right.

Nick continued, “Yes, pure blood ideology is certainly a cancer, Halimah. I suppose I just had never considered how that might be connected to, er, well, house elves. But something to think about.”

They set off up the corridor together. Nick, Halimah noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter. Thinking maybe she should offer an olive branch after the heavy discussion, she gestured at the letter.

“I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” she said.

 

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Halimah walked right through him. She wished she hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

“But there is something you could do for me,” said Nick excitedly. “Halimah — would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn’t want —”

“What is it?” said Halimah, noting his sudden change in tone and demeanor with annoyance.

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

“Oh,” said Halimah, not sure whether she should look sorry or happy about this. “Right.”

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an  _ honor _ if you would attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?” He watched Halimah on tenterhooks.

“No,” said Halimah quickly, “I’ll come —”

“My dear girl! Halimah Potter, at my deathday party! And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think you could  _ possibly _ mention to Sir Patrick how  _ very _ frightening and impressive you find me?”

“Of — of course,” said Halimah.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her.

 

****

 

“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when Halimah had changed at last and joined her and Ron in the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll be fascinating!”

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” said Ron, who was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead depressing to me...”

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had “rescued” the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Halimah was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch, the Kwikspell course, and the house elves when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove the earlier events of the evening temporarily from Halimah’s mind. But once it all had died down, it came back to her, and she immediately told Hermione and Ron about the Kwikspell thing, Filch’s overwork, and the house elves.

Hermione looked troubled and Ron uncomfortable.

“I...I dunno what to say,” he finally said, “I mean, I feel bad for Filch, Halimah, I do, but he’s still a wanker, isn’t he? I mean, the only reason he let you go was because you saw the letter, right?”

Halimah shrugged, “Yeah, but the way he reacted when he figured out I read the letter, I  _ know _ that look, Ron. That’s what I used to do when I knew the Dursleys had discovered me being too girly or something. He’s terrified. And the house elves…” She trailed off, still brimming with anger that a whole species of beings were enslaved in the magical world. 

Hermione was nodding, “It’s abhorrent. Do you---do either of you know whether there are any elves’ rights groups, or anything?” She looked from Halimah to Ron.

“I only discovered that house elves even  _ existed _ two months ago,” Halimah said bitterly, “ There should be if there isn’t one already, though.”

Ron looked even more uncomfortable, “I---t’be honest, I’ve never really thought about before. I dunno whether there’s anyone sticking up for their rights or anything. They’re just...well, they’re just sort of taken for granted by rich people like the Malfoys.” Ron’s face hardened, “And that’s really all you need to know to know that it’s wrong, I suppose. Most people just don’t think about it.”

Hermione had a steely look in her eyes, “And if Filch is as scared as you say Halimah, about being discovered, then how is that any better than how people like Malfoy treat people like me? Muggleborns and magic-born people with no magic, we’re just seen as lesser people!”

“Squibs, that’s what we call people like Filch,” Ron muttered, then, seeing the thunderous expression on both Hermione and Halimah’s faces, he hurriedly continued, “It’s not a slur, not like...well, you know. And it is terrible, you’re right, I’m not---I’m not defending people who are horrible to Squibs or Muggleborns or house elves. It’s just, I dunno, it’s going to be a hard thing to change for three twelve-year olds.”

Hermione took out a fresh piece of parchment, “Well, we might as well start somewhere.”

They spent the rest of the evening discussing what, if anything, they could do to help Filch and the house elves, and Halimah went to bed determined and glad to be taking some sort of action.

 

****

 

By the time Halloween arrived, Halimah, Hermione, and Ron had done plenty of research on elvish rights and protections for Squibs, but were swamped with homework, much to their frustration. Halimah was regretting her rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Halimah bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.”

Halimah grumbled indistinctly, but knew Hermione was right.

So at seven o’clock, Halimah, Hermione, and Ron walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Halimah shivered and drew her robes tightly around her, she heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard. 

“Is that supposed to be  _ music _ ?” Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, welcome...so pleased you could come...”

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

“Shall we have a look around?” Halimah suggested, wanting to warm up her feet.

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Halimah wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baroness, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly and grabbing Halimah’s hand. She jerked her head in front of them. “Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to---,”

“Ugh,  _ Moaning Myrtle _ ,” Halimah groaned and quickly followed Hermione.

“Who?” asked Ron.

“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor,” said Hermione.

“She haunts a toilet?”

“Yes,” said Halimah, who’d had one too many encounters with the morose ghost, “It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you about how she’s more miserable than you—”

“Look, food!” said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

 

**SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON**

**DIED 31st OCTOBER, 1492**

 

Halimah watched, amazed, as a tall ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Halimah asked him.

“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly fro under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

“Hello, Peeves,” said Halimah cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

“No thanks,” said Hermione.

“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves, his eyes dancing. “Rude you was about poor Myrtle.” He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OY! MYRTLE!”

“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what we said, she’ll be really upset,” Hermione whispered frantically. 

Halimah’s eyes darted around the dungeon, “I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.”

The short ghost of a girl had glided over. Halimah tried to plaster a welcoming smile on her face as she took in the ghost’s moping, mean girl sneer, and lank hairdo.

“What?” she said sulkily.

“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely bright voice. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.”

Myrtle sniffed.

“Miss Granger and Miss Potter was just talking about you —” said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.

“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,” said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.

Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.

“Yeah!” said Halimah quickly, “Love your hair, Myrtle! Much, er, better than mine, you know.”

“You just want me to do something for you,” she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes, “Or you think I’m not up with the current fashion.”

“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s looking?” said Hermione, nudging Ron painfully in the ribs.

“Oh, yeah —”

“She did —,” said Halimah.

“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle! Not even capable of being more stylish than a transsexual!”

“Oh boy, here it is,” Halimah muttered.

“Myrtle, we’ve already talked to you about calling Halimah that,” Hermione said angrily, forgetting to try and placate the wailing ghost in trying to defend Halimah.

“Oh, no, it’s a  _ compliment _ !” Myrtle sobbed, “ _ Everyone _ is better than me!”

“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply! Pimply!”

“Oh, dear,” said Hermione, then turned to Haliman, “I’m sorry Halimah, I thought she’d stopped---,”

“‘S fine,” Halimah said, “At least she doesn’t scream about boys in the bathroom anymore when I go in.”

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

“Oh, yes,” they lied.

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent...It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra...”

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment.

They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded.

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Halimah started to clap, too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.

“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?” 

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.

“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Halimah, Hermione, and Ron and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd howled with laughter).

“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.

“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from the floor.

“Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say — look at the fellow —”

“I think,” said Halimah hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er —”

“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to say that!”

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight. “My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow...”

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers.

Halimah was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor.

“Let’s go,” Halimah agreed.

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.

And then Halimah heard it.

“ _...must rip...tear...must kill...follow...the one... _ ”

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice she had heard in Lockhart’s office.

She stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all her might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

“Halimah, what’re you — ?”

“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”

“...soo hungry...for so long...”

“Listen!” said Halimah urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching her.

“ _...kill...time to kill... _ ”

“NO, don’t kill  _ anyone! _ ” Halimah said loudly, and as had happened before, the voice stopped. This time, however, it seemed to respond to her.

“ _ CAN’T...MUST…” _

“Halimah, are you okay, do you need a drink of water?”  
“What’s going on, I mean those smells back in the dungeon---,”  
“Just _listen_ ,” Halimah shouted.

The voice was growing fainter. Halimah was sure it was moving away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped her as she stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?

“This way,” she shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Halimah sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind her. She could hear them asking her things but she was too focused on the voice.

“Halimah, what’re we —”

“ _ SHH _ !”

Halimah strained her ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, she heard the voice: “ _...I smell blood... I SMELL BLOOD!...FOLLOW... _ ”

Her stomach lurched —

“It’s going to kill someone!” she shouted, and ignoring Ron’s and Hermione’s bewildered faces, she ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over her own pounding footsteps —

Halimah hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind her, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

“Halimah, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping sweat off his face. “You just coughed and then I couldn’t hear anything….”

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

“Look!”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN

OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

 

“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Halimah almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed her, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.

For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Halimah began awkwardly.

“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends. 

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Halimah, Hermione, and Ron stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.


	9. Written in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah, Hermione, and Ron learn some disturbing things about the history of Hogwarts and the four Founders, and begin to conduct an investigation of their own. Meanwhile, Halimah begins to question her placement in her own House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW MISGENDERING, TRANSPHOBIA
> 
> I personally like the idea of Myrtle being a really actually unpleasant mean girl in life, which translates to her constant complaining as a ghost.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Halimah. His face seemed to convulse, unsure of how to react.

“You!” he said in a hoarse voice. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! After---after you said---you couldn’t---how could —” He walked towards her, as if in a trance.

“Argus!”

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Halimah, Hermione, and Ron and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Miss Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Halimah saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their faces covered in what looked like green mud. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her.

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her...”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Occasionally he would glare at Halimah and she tried her best to convey that she had just as little idea as to what was going on as he did. After her encounter with Filch a few days before, she really did feel sorry for him, and furious that he was treated as he was, simply for not having magic, but she also sincerely hoped that Dumbledore did not believe him about Mrs. Norris. If Dumbledore believed Filch, she would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

“...I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once.”

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. Hermione glared at Lockhart and made a cough that sounded suspiciously like “white savior complex” to Halimah’s ears.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. 

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all stiff and frozen?”

“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart. Hermione snorted). “But how, I cannot say...”

“Ask  _ her _ !” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Halimah, who flinched.

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced —”

“I--but!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what she wrote on the wall! She found — in my office — she knows I’m a — I’m a —” Filch’s face worked horribly. “She knows I’m a Squib!” he hissed, darting his eyes at Halimah, “She said---acted like she understood---some nonsense---just an excuse---”

“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Halimah said more loudly than she meant to, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at her, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And at the time I didn’t even know what a Squib was, I had to ask Ron and Hermione.”

“That’s true,” Ron said quickly, and Hermione nodded.

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “She saw my Kwikspell letter and acted like she was  _ concerned _ and everything!”

Dumbledore looked from Halimah to Filch, taking in Halimah’s scared eyes and Filch’s panting and shook his head, “Really, Argus, she’s twelve. Even if what you believe is true, surely you could withstand the jibes of a child?”  
Halimah bristled at that. _Child_ , was she? And she _had_ wanted to help Filch! _But you_ are _a child_ , a voice inside her said, _what could you do, really?_

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Halimah’s sense of foreboding increased; she was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do her any good.

“Potter and...her friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was she in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t she at the Halloween feast?”

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. “...there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there —”

“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?”

Ron and Hermione looked at Halimah.

“Because — because —” Halimah said, her heart thumping very fast; something told her it would sound very far-fetched if she told them she had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but she could hear, and which had responded to her own voice, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” she said.

“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.”

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape’s nasty smile widened.

“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if she were deprived of certain privileges until she is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel she should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until she is ready to be honest.”

“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to stop the girl playing Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong.”

Dumbledore was giving Halimah a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Halimah feel as though she were being X-rayed and it made her incredibly uncomfortable. Was there a form of magical mind-reading? 

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see some  _ punishment _ !”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently.

“Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.”

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —”

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Halimah, Ron, and Hermione.

They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart’s office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Halimah squinted at her friends’ darkened faces.

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?”

“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the magical world.”

Something in Ron’s voice made Halimah ask, “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“ ’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must admit it’s weird...”

“I know it’s weird,” said Halimah . “The whole  _ thing’s _ weird. What was that writing on the wall about? ‘ _ The Chamber Has Been Opened _ ’...What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once...might’ve been Bill...”

“And why on earth did Filch immediately jump at me?” said Halimah.

 Ron shrugged, “He’s scared, I suppose. Think’s you’re using what you know about him against him.”

“That’s sick,” Halimah said angrily, torn between sadness and anger, “I just...I just thought I could maybe help. But this world is so...so screwed up…” She trailed off, unsure of what she could say, but Hermione nodded in understanding.

A clock chimed somewhere.

“Midnight,” said Halimah. “We’d better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else.”

****

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Halimah had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. She had stopped to ask if she could help but his glower had been so fierce that she had lost her nerve and quickly walked away. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”

Ginny seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris’s fate. She had told Halimah over the summer during one of their late night chats that she loved cats. A few days after the incident, she had approached Halimah, Hermione, and Ron in the common room and sat with them. Halimah was sure she wanted to say something to them, but couldn’t get it out. She had tried to give the girl an encouraging smile, but Ginny had simply stared into the fire, gripping the arms of her chair very tightly.

“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron told her bracingly one day. “Honestly, we’re much better off without her.” Ginny’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her. “They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have them out of here in no time. I just hope they’ve got time to Petrify Filch before they’re expelled. I’m only joking —” Ron added hastily as Ginny blanched and Halimah glared at him.

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of time reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else. Nor could Halimah and Ron get much response from her when they asked what she was up to, and not until the following Wednesday did they find out.

Halimah had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made her stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, she went upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming toward her. Halimah had just opened her mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of her, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction.

Halimah found Ron at the back of the library, measuring his History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had asked for a three-foot-long composition on “The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”

“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short...” said Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s done four feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny.”

“Where is she?” asked Halimah, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling her own homework.

“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the shelves. “Looking for another book. I think she’s trying to read the whole library before Christmas.”

Halimah told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from her.

“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of a bore,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart being so great —”

Halimah shrugged, “He  _ is _ Muggleborn, though, he just didn’t know better, I suppose.”

“Oh, Halimah, come on, so am  _ I _ , and I can see right through him.”

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. She looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk to them.

“ _ Now _ you do,” Ron muttered.

“Yes, Ron, I  _ learned _ . All the copies of  _ Hogwarts, A History _ have been taken out,” Hermione said, sitting down next to Halimah and Ron. “And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.”

“Why do you want it?” said Halimah distractedly, her mind trying to come up with some way of lengthening her essay.

“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said Hermione, “to read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.”

“What’s that?” said Halimah quickly, refocusing on the conversation.

“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “And I can’t find the story anywhere else —”

“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron desperately, checking his watch.

“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve had ten days to finish it —”

“I only need another two inches, come on —”

The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering.

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the staffroom fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened in this class before. Hermione put up her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed.

“Miss — er — ?”

“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said Hermione in a clear voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her arms with a start and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal with  _ facts _ , Miss Granger, not myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk snapping and continued, “In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers —”

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving in the air again.

“Miss, er, Grant?”

“Please, sir, don’t legends often have a basis in fact?”

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Halimah was sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead.

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could argue that, I suppose.” He peered at Hermione as though he had never seen a student properly before. “However, the legend of which you speak is such a very  _ sensational _ , even  _ ludicrous _ tale —”

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Halimah could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest.

“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see...the Chamber of Secrets...

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago — the precise date is uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards of the British Isles of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued.

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.”

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise.

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing.

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were  _ unworthy _ to study magic.”

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns’s classes. There was unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned magical minds. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.”

Hermione’s hand was back in the air.

“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber? And are you saying that the whole prejudice against Muggle-borns is because Muggles used to persecute magical people?”

“Many would argue that is the case, Miss Ginger, but such a reading is ahistorical. Very rarely were actual magical people harmed by Muggles, and certainly not by Muggle-borns, and such stories were taken advantage of by proponents of pureblood superiority. As for ‘the horror within,’ that is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice.

The class exchanged nervous looks.

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.”

“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else  _ would _ be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the thing —”

“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it —”

“Just because a magical person _ doesn’t _ use Dark Magic doesn’t mean they _ can’t _ , Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore —”

“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t —” began Dean Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough.

“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to  _ history _ , to solid, believable, verifiable  _ fact _ !”

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.

 

****  
  


“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old bigot,” Ron told Halimah and Hermione as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home---”

He was cut off when another boy pushed past him. It was Blaise Zabini, a Slytherin second year with whom none of them had ever spoken. There was a look of anger and sadness on his elfin features.

Hermione nodded and began discussing what Professor Binns had said about pureblood propaganda, but Halimah didn’t say anything. Her stomach had just dropped unpleasantly, and she was distracted by the look she had seen on Blaise’s face.

Halimah had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting  _ her _ in Slytherin. She could remember, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in her ear when she’d placed the hat on her head a year before:  _ You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that... _

But Halimah, who had already heard of Slytherin House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards and was quite sure that her gender identity would result in bullying from such a House, had thought desperately,  _ Not Slytherin! _ and the hat had said,  _ Oh, well, if you’re sure...better be Gryffindor... _

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevey went past.

“Hiya, Halimah!”

“Hullo, Colin,” said Halimah automatically.

“Halimah — Halimah — a boy in my class has been saying you’re —”

But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they heard him squeak, “See you, Halimah!” and he was gone.

Halimah was instantly gripped with fear and anger. Was this what she had worried about happening for ages? Were other students going to start giving her grief for being a girl? But before she could retreat too far into horrible flashbacks from her primary school days, she remembered her encounter with Justin earlier.

“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?” Hermione wondered.

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Halimah, her stomach dropping another inch or so as she remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run away from her, the look of panic she’d seen in his eyes.

“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust.

The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase without difficulty.

“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?” Ron asked Hermione.

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be — well — human.”

As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message “The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.”

“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron muttered. They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.

“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Halimah, dropping her bag and getting to her hands and knees so that she could crawl along, searching for clues.

“Scorch marks!” she said. “Here — and here —”

“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is funny...”

Halimah got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said Hermione wonderingly.

“No,” said Halimah, “have you, Ron? Ron?”

She looked over her shoulder. Ron was standing well back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run.

“What’s up?” said Halimah concernedly.

“I — don’t — like — spiders,” said Ron tensely.

“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of times...”

“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like the way they move...”

Hermione giggled. Halimah gave her a withering glance.

“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my — my teddy bear into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy broomstick...You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and...”

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously still trying not to laugh, but Halimah looked at her again and she looked chastened. Feeling they had better get off the subject, Halimah said, “Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s mopped it up.”

“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.”

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned.

“What’s the matter?” said Halimah blankly.

“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’ toilet.”

Halimah and Hermione rolled their eyes

“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”

Halimah took a deep breath, and steeled herself to deal with Moaning Myrtles’s particular brand of unpleasantness.

Ignoring the large out of order sign, she opened the door. It was gloomy and depressing as always, and Halimah wrinkled her nose at the musty smell that permeated everything. She’d come in here all of two times last year and had left the second time holding back tears because of Myrtle’s passive aggressive insults. Under the  large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges. Halimah hated the place, but if they were to have even a whisper of a hope of learning anything about the events of Halloween night, she could deal.

Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off toward the end stall, closely followed by Halimah. When she reached it Hermione said, “Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”

Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin and muttering about hair products. She turned around when she heard Hermione speak, and glared at them.

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron, who had just joined them. “ _ He’s  _ not a girl. And  _ you _ only barely qualify.”

“I’m a girl,” Halimah said through gritted teeth, “Myrtle, I’ve been in here at least twice and you’re the only one who’s even remotely cared.”

“Ron  _ is _ a boy,” Hermione agreed cautiously, patting Halimah comfortingly on the shoulder. “We just wanted to show him how — er — nice it is in here.”

She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor.

Halimah cleared her throat and shoved down her annoyance. They were here for information, and they wouldn’t get that by pissing off Myrtle. 

“We wanted to ask,” Halimah said, “Did you see anything Halloween night?”

“Or anything funny at all?” interjected Ron.

“Are you calling me funny?!” said Myrtle, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead —”

“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione. “Ron only —”

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this place, what with everyone always wanting to  _ be  _ me and never  _ really  _ being my friend, and now people come along ruining my death!”

“We just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything...odd lately,” said Hermione quickly. “Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.”

“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said Halimah, struggling to hold in her impatience. Myrtle’s obsession with herself and what people thought of her was always grating.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically. “Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to drown my sorrows. Then, of course, when I tried to partake of the alcohol, I remembered that I’m — that I’m —”

“Dead,” said Ron helpfully. Halimah and Hermione both closed their eyes, knowing what was about to happen. 

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Ron stood with his mouth open, but Halimah and Hermione shrugged wearily and Hermione said, “Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle...Come on, let’s go.”

Halimah had barely closed the door on Myrtle’s gurgling sobs when a loud voice made all three of them jump.

“RON!”

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, prefect badge agleam, an expression of complete shock on his face.

“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you — ?”

“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues, you know —”

Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Halimah forcefully of Mrs. Weasley.

“Get — away — from — there —” Percy said, striding toward them and starting to bustle them along, flapping his arms. “Don’t you  _ care _ what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner? And going into a  _ girl’s _ bathroom, I mean to say, and with Halimah and Hermione—”

“And why would that matter?” asked Halimah coldly, “It’s just a bathroom, Percy, obviously we weren’t doing anything bad.”

“And why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping short and glaring at Percy. “Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!”

“That’s what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but she still seems to think you’re going to be expelled, I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you might think of  _ her _ , all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business —”

“ _ You _ don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears were now reddening. “ _ You’re _ just worried I’m going to mess up your chances of being Head Boy —”

“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely, touching his prefect badge. “And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more  _ detective work _ , or I’ll write to Mum!”

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron’s ears.

 

****

 

Halimah, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the common room that night. Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting his Charms homework. When he reached absently for his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework, Ron slammed  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 _ shut. To Halimah’s surprise, Hermione followed suit.

“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a conversation they had just been having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”

“Let’s think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?”

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced.

“If you’re talking about Malfoy —”

“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him — ‘ _ You’ll be next, M-words! _ ’ — come on, you’ve only got to look at his foul rat face to know it’s him —”

“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione skeptically.

“Look at his family,” said Halimah, closing her books, too. “The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; he’s  _ always _ boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil enough.”

“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!” said Ron. “Handing it down, parent to kid...”

“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s possible...”

“But how do we prove it?” said Halimah darkly.

“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still further with a quick glance across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous,  _ very _ dangerous. We’d be breaking about  _ fifty _ school rules, I expect —”

“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won’t you?” said Ron irritably.

“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we’d need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it’s us.”

“But that’s impossible,” Halimah said as Ron laughed.

“No, it’s not,” said Hermione. “All we’d need would be some Polyjuice Potion.”

“What’s that?” said Ron and Halimah together.

“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago —”

“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?” muttered Ron.

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, “It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us anything. He’s probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear him.”

“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said Ron, frowning. “What if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever?”

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called  _ Moste Potente Potions _ and it’s bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.”

There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.

“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said Ron, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the potions.”

“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance...”

“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said Ron. “They’d have to be really thick.”

Hermione was grinning, “I think I know  _ just _ who to ask.”


	10. Bludger-oning Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah, Hermione, and Ron set their plan in motion, and Halimah regrows some bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW TRANSPHOBIA, ABUSE MENTIONS
> 
> Dobby really gets the short stick in canon-he's presented as ridiculous, but his situation is so dire. I think he genuinely wants to help HP, no matter the cost, and that doesn't make him bad or a joke, but Halimah definitely has trouble working through her feelings about everything.

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits, much to the annoyance of every single student. He usually picked Halimah to help him with these reconstructions; so far, Halimah had been forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had cured of a Babbling Curse and a yeti with a head cold. When Lockhart had asked her to be a male vampire who had been unable to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him, she refused, remaining silently in her seat and glaring at him until he grew uncomfortable and moved on to another anecdote. 

Halimah was hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf. If she hadn’t had a very good reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood,s he would have refused to participate again.

“Nice loud howl, Halimah— exactly — and then, if you’ll believe it, I pounced — like this — slammed her to the floor — thus — with one hand, I managed to hold her down — with my other, I put my wand to her throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm — she let out a piteous moan — go on, Halimah — higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the fangs shrank — and she turned back into a woman. Simple, yet effective — and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.”

The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.

“Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of  _ Magical Me _ to the author of the best one!”

The class began to leave. Halimah returned to the back of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

“Ready?” Halimah muttered.

“Let’s wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermione nervously. “I can’t  _ believe _ he made up all of that stuff about werewolves! The  _ Homorphus Charm _ ? Everyone knows that there’s no cure for lycanthropy, and the only thing that sort of helps is the Wolfsbane Potion! Ugh, never mind, everyone’s gone, let’s get this over with...”

She approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand, Halimah and Ron right behind her.

“Er — Professor Lockhart?” Hermione said confidently. “I wanted to get this book out of the library. Just for background reading.” She held out the piece of paper, her hand steady. “But the thing is, it’s in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it — I’m sure it would help me understand what you say in _ Gadding with Ghouls _ about slow-acting venoms —” Halimah could see that the lie took all of Hermione’s strength, and that praising Lockhart’s book was physically painful.

“Ah,  _ Gadding with Ghouls _ !” said Lockhart, taking the note from Hermione and smiling widely at her. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hermione with an obviously fake simper that Halimah was amazed Lockhart did not see through. “So  _ very  _ clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer —”

“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the incredulous look on Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book signings.”

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Hermione.

“So, Halimah,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the note slipped it into her bag. “Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you’re a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players...”

Halimah stared at Lockhart for a moment too long and made an indistinct noise in her throat and then hurried off after Ron and Hermione, fuming.

“I don’t believe it,” she said as the three of them examined the signature on the note. “He didn’t even look at the book we wanted.”

“That’s because he’s a brainless git,” said Ron. “But who cares, we’ve got what we needed.”

“The  _ number _ of inaccuracies in  _ Gadding with Ghouls _ ,” said Hermione shrilly as they half ran toward the library, “And I still can’t get over that misinformation about werewolves.  _ Unbelievable--- _ ”

“I know, Hermione, but c’mon, we have to stay on task —”

They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture.

“ _ Moste Potente Potions _ ?” she repeated suspiciously, taking the note from Hermione, who let it go as though it were some foul bit of rotten fruit she’d been forced to carry around.

Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. She stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned several minutes later carrying a large and moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty.

Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle’s out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione had overridden Ron’s objections by pointing out that it was the last place anyone of any gender in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they were ignoring her, and she them.

Hermione opened  _ Moste Potente Potions _ carefully, and the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head.

“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed  _ The Polyjuice Potion _ . It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through transforming into other people. Halimah sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces.

“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,” said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she murmured, running her finger down the list of ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves...Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know where we’re going to get that — shredded skin of a boomslang — that’ll be tricky, too — and of course a bit of whoever we want to change into.”

“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d’you mean, a bit of whoever we’re changing into? I’m drinking nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it —”

Hermione continued as though she hadn’t heard him.

“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits last...”

Ron turned, speechless, to Halimah, who had another worry.

“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal, Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s definitely not in the students’ cupboard. What’re we going to do, break into Snape’s private stores? I don’t know if this is a good idea…”

Hermione shut the book with a snap.

“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she said. Her eyes flashed with anger and determination. “ _ I _ don’t want to break rules, you know.  _ I _ think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Malfoy, I’ll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in —”

“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be persuading us to break rules,” said Ron. “All right, we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?”

“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Halimah as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book again.

“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days...I’d say it’d be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.”

“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggle-borns in the school by then!” But Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full steam ahead, I say.”

However, while Hermione was checking that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered to Halimah, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.”

 

****

 

Halimah woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. She was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold could buy. She had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there with her insides churning, she got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where she found the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking uptight and not speaking much.

As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying over to wish Halimah good luck as she entered the locker rooms.

The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk.

“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No point denying it. But we’ve got better  _ people _ on our brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve been flying in all weathers —” (“Too true,” muttered George Weasley. “I haven’t been properly dry since August”) “— and we’re going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their team.”

Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Halimah.

“It’ll be down to you, Halimah, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Halimah, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”

“So no pressure, Halimah,” said Fred, winking at her.

As they walked out onto the field, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the flying teacher and usual Quidditch referee, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary. Malfoy gave Halimah malicious grin.

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three...two...one...”

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Halimah flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the Snitch. “All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath her as though to show off the speed of his broom.

Halimah had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward her; she avoided it so narrowly that she felt it ruffle her hair as it passed.

“Close one, Halimah!” said George, streaking past her with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Halimah saw George give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Halimah again.

Halimah dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Halimah’s head.

Halimah put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the field. She could hear the Bludger whistling along behind her. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible...

Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Halimah ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course.

“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as though it was magnetically attracted to Halimah, the Bludger pelted after her once more and Halimah was forced to fly off at full speed.

It had started to rain; Halimah felt heavy drops fall onto her face, splattering onto her glasses. She didn’t have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until she heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say, “Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero —”

The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and meanwhile the rogue Bludger was doing all it could to knock Halimah out of the air. Fred and George were now flying so close to her on either side that Halimah could see nothing at all except their

flailing arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let alone catch it.

“Someone’s — tampered — with — this — Bludger —” Fred grunted, swinging his bat with all his might at it as it launched a new attack on Halimah.

“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to Wood and stop the Bludger breaking Halimah’s nose at the same time.

Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out and Halimah, Fred, and George dived for the ground, still trying to avoid the Bludger.

“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd jeered. “We’re being flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina scoring?”

“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Halimah, Oliver,” said George angrily. “Someone’s fixed it — it won’t leave Halimah alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must have done something to it.”

“But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch’s office since our last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then...” said Wood, anxiously.

Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her shoulder, Halimah could see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing in her direction. Malfoy was pantomiming Halimah crying. She narrowed her eyes.

“Listen,” said Halimah as Madam Hooch came nearer and nearer, “with you two flying around me all the time, the only way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one.”

“Don’t be thick,” said Fred. “It’ll take your head off.”

Wood was looking from Halimah to the Weasleys.

“Oliver, this is insane,” said Alicia Spinnet angrily. “You can’t let Halimah deal with that thing on her own. Let’s ask for an inquiry —”

“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said Halimah. “And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!”

“This is all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “ ‘Get the Snitch or die trying,’ what a stupid thing to tell her —” Halimah glared at George. She knew the team had her best interests at heart but she couldn’t let Malfoy win.

Madam Hooch had joined them. 

“Ready to resume play?” she asked Wood.

Wood looked at the determined, angry look on Halimah’s face.

“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Halimah — leave her alone and let her deal with the Bludger on her own.”

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch’s whistle, Halimah kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind her. Higher and higher Halimah climbed; she looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy,

she nevertheless kept her eyes wide open, rain was speckling her glasses and ran up her nostrils as she hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. She could hear laughter from the crowd; she knew she must look very ridiculous, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change direction as quickly as Halimah could; she began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past Wood —

A whistling in Halimah’s ear told her the Bludger had just missed her again; she turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled Malfoy as Halimah was forced to do a silly kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and she fled, the Bludger trailing a few feet behind her; and then, glaring back at Malfoy in hatred and intending to tell him exactly where he could stuff his sexist, transmisogynistic nonsense, she saw it — the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear — and Malfoy, busy laughing at Halimah, hadn’t seen it, the giant prat.

For an agonizing moment, Halimah hung in midair, not daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch.

_ WHAM _ .

She had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit her at last, smashed into her elbow, and Halimah felt her arm break.

Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in her arm, she slid sideways on her rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, her right arm dangling useless at her side — the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at her face — Halimah swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in her numb brain:  _ get to Malfoy _ .

Through a haze of rain and pain she dived for the shimmering, sneering face below her and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought Halimah was attacking him. She grinned savagely.

“What the —” Malfoy gasped, careening out of Halimah’s way.

Halimah took her remaining hand off her broom and made a wild snatch; she felt her fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with her legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as she headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.

With a splattering thud she hit the mud and rolled off her broom. Her arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, she heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. She focused on the Snitch clutched in her good hand.

“Aha,” she said vaguely. “We’ve won.” 

She giggled drunkenly and then she fainted.

She came around, rain falling on her face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning over her. She saw a glitter of teeth.

“Oh, no, not  _ you _ ,” she moaned, trying to roll out of the way. She could  _ not _ deal with Lockhart right now.

“Doesn’t know what she’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Halimah. I’m about to fix your arm.”

“No!” said Halimah desperately. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks...”

She tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. She heard a familiar clicking noise nearby.

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” she said loudly, turning her face away.

“Lie back, Halimah,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a simple charm I’ve used countless times —”

“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Halimah through clenched teeth.

“She should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, who couldn’t help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Halimah, really spectacular, your best yet, I’d say —”

Through the thicket of legs around her, Halimah spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.

“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

“No —  _ don’t _ —” said Halimah weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Halimah’s arm. She flinched.

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Halimah’s shoulder and spread all the way down to her fingertips. It felt as though her arm was being deflated. She didn’t dare look at what was happening. She had shut her eyes, her face turned away from her arm, but her worst fears were realized as the people above her gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. Her arm didn’t hurt anymore — nor did it feel remotely like an arm.

“Ah,” said Lockhart in a tight voice. “Yes. Well, that  _ can _ sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Halimah, just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort her? — and Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a bit.”

As Halimah got to her feet, she felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath she looked down at her right side. What she saw nearly made her pass out again.

Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, brown rubber glove. She tried to move her fingers. Nothing happened.

Lockhart hadn’t mended Halimah’s bones. He had removed them.

 

****

 

Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased.

“You should have come straight to me!” she raged, holding up the floppy, quivering remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend bones in a second — but growing them back —”

“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Halimah desperately.

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Halimah a pair of pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night...”

Ron waited outside the curtain drawn around Halimah’s bed while Hermione helped her into her nightdress. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve.

“I can’t believe none of the other teachers stopped Lockhart.” Ron called through the curtain. “If one of them had said something, Halimah wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You saw, they were all distracted by dealing with the Bludger,” said Hermione, helping Halimah do the last button on the nightdress. “But I am shocked at just how incompetent that...that...” Hermione’s face screwed up, and Halimah could see her desire to use some choice words battling with her dislike of criticizing teachers. 

“That buffoon? Asshole? Buffoonish asshole?” asked Halimah helpfully, getting into bed. Hermione looked shocked, but then laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think anything he does will surprise me anymore.”

As she swung herself onto the bed, her arm flapped pointlessly.

Ron and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled  _ Skele-Gro _ .

“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to her. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.”

So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Halimah’s mouth and throat as it went down, making her cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Halimah gulp down some water.

“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s face...he looked ready to kill...”

“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said Hermione darkly. “It’s supposedly incredibly difficult to alter the incantations on Quidditch supplies.”

“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” said Halimah, sinking back onto her pillows. “I hope it tastes better than this stuff...”

“If it’s got bits of Malfoy’s friends in it? You’ve got to be joking,” said Ron.

The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Halimah.

“Unbelievable flying, Halimah,” said George, who seemed to have forgiven Halimah and Wood. “I’ve just seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.”

They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Halimah’s bed and were just getting started on what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, shouting, “This girl needs rest, she’s got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”

And Halmah was left alone, with nothing to distract her from the stabbing pains in her limp arm.

 

****

 

Hours and hours later, Halimah woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: her arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, she thought that was what had woken her. She’d been having a dream in which an unseen, monstrous form hunted her through the empty corridors of the school, laughing when she tried to see what it was. Then, with a thrill of horror, she realized that someone was sponging her forehead in the dark.

“Get off!” she said loudly, violently flinching, and then, “ _ Dobby _ !”

The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Halimah through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

“Halimah Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Halimah Potter. Ah miss, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Halimah Potter go back home when she missed the train?”

Halimah heaved herself up on her pillows and pushed Dobby’s sponge away.

“What’re you doing here?” she said. “And how did you know I missed the train?”

Dobby’s lip trembled and Halimah was seized by a sudden suspicion.

“It was you!” she said slowly. “You stopped the barrier from letting us through!”

“Indeed yes, miss,” said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for Halimah Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward” — he showed Halimah ten long, bandaged fingers and she squeaked in fear and fury — “but Dobby didn’t care, miss, for he thought Halimah Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Halimah Potter would get to school another way!”

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his bat-like head.

“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Halimah Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, miss...”

Halimah slumped back onto her pillows, her mind whirling. Her fury at Dobby’s situation was competing with her frustration at Dobby’s actions trying to save her, she didn’t know what to think anymore. She was exhausted, her arm was hurting worse and worse, and she just wanted to sleep.

“You nearly got Ron and me expelled,” she mumbled. “My aunt and uncle, they…they locked me up after what you did. They took my puberty potions, Dobby. Please, please just leave me alone. Every time you try to help me, you just make things harder for me.”

Dobby smiled weakly.

“Ah, miss, but better you be sad and angry than dead...”

“No, Dobby, no! If I had lost those potions for even a couple more days this summer, I don’t know what would have happened! Every day was  _ torture _ , my...my body. You  _ don’t _ get that.”

Dobby’s eyes filled with tears again, “Dobby did not know, miss. But Dobby only wants what is best for Halimah Potter.” Halimah just sighed and rubbed her eyes with her left hand, taking care to not jostle her right arm too much

Dobby blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so sad and small that Halimah felt her anger ebb away in spite of herself.

“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” she asked sadly, “It’s falling apart.”

“This, miss?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “ ’Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, miss. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock for then he would be free to leave their house forever.”

Halimah’s left hand clenched in rage. The more she learned of the position of house elves in magical society, the more she wanted to scream at everyone who let this happen. She hated that she benefited from such enslavement and she desperately wanted to do something about it.  
“That’s...I don’t even have the words, Dobby. And please, you don’t have to call me ‘miss’. I’m just Halimah.”  
Dobby laughed sadly, “It is the way of things, Halimah Potter.” He mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Halimah Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make —”

“ _ Your _ Bludger?” said Halimah, frustration rising once more. “What d’you mean,  _ your  _ Bludger?  _ You _ made that Bludger try and kill me?”

“Not  _ kill _ you, never kill you!” said Dobby, shocked. “Dobby wants to save Halimah Potter’s life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here! Dobby only wanted Halimah Potter hurt enough to be sent home!”

“Oh, is that all?” said Halimah angrily. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces? Back to people who would just as soon s-starve me and, and, and  _ torture _ me?” Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks now.

“Ah, if Halimah Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned desperately, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If she knew what she means to us, to the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be- Named was at the height of his powers! We house-elves were treated like vermin! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. “And for many others. But your triumph over He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gave us  _ hope _ . Halimah Potter survived, and the Dark Lord’s power was broken, and it was a new dawn and Halimah Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end...And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Halimah Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more —”

Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Halimah’s water jug from her bedside table before she could stop him and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. Halimah winced and forced down flashbacks of when she had been punished by her aunt and uncle. A second later, Dobby crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, “Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby...” Halimah wished she could embrace him, but she wasn’t sure how he would react and she was still processing what he had just said.

“So there  _ is _ a Chamber of Secrets?” Halimah whispered. “And — did you say it’s been opened  _ before _ ?  _ Tell _ me, Dobby!”

She firmly seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched toward the water jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born — how can I be in danger from the Chamber?”

“Ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,” stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Halimah Potter must not be here when they happen — go home, Halimah Potter, go home. Halimah Potter must not meddle in this, ’tis too dangerous —”

“Who is it, Dobby?” Halimah said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby’s wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again. “Who’s opened it? Who opened it last time?”

“Dobby can’t, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!” squealed the elf. “Go home, Halimah Potter, go home!”

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Halimah fiercely. “I already told you, the Dursleys will  _ destroy _ me. And one of my best friends is Muggle-born; she’ll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened —”

“Halimah Potter risks her own life for her friends!” moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So noble! So valiant! But she must save herself, she must, Halimah Potter must not —”

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Halimah heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Halimah’s fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. She slumped back into bed, her eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.

“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Halimah’s bed out of sight. Halimah lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. She heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her pyjamas. She heard a sharp intake of breath.

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed.

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found him on the stairs.”

“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter.”

Halimah’s stomach gave a horrible lurch.  _ Ron _ ? Slowly and carefully, she raised herself a few inches so she could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face.

It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his camera. Halimah felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. Colin annoyed her sometimes, but he was just a kid. They all were. Someone was attacking kids who had never done anything wrong, just because of who they were born to. Her breath hitched, and she desperately tried to steady herself before the adults heard her.

“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey.

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to think...If Albus hadn’t been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate — who knows what might have —”

The three of them stared down at Colin. Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out of Colin’s rigid grip.

“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?” said Professor McGonagall, her voice tight.

Dumbledore didn’t answer. He opened the back of the camera.

“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey.

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Halimah, three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic.

“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey in horror. “All melted...”

“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked urgently.

“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.”

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore.

“But, Albus...surely...who?”

“The question is not  _ who _ ,” said Dumbledore quietly, his eyes on Colin. “The question is,  _ how _ ...”

And from what Halimah could see of Professor McGonagall’s shadowy face, she didn’t understand this any better than she did. 

 

****

 

Halimah stayed awake long after the adults had left the hospital wing. She got out of her bed as quietly as she could and padded over to Colin’s bed. His face was frozen in shock, his hands pressed close to his eyes from where he had been holding his camera. The sight brought tears to her eyes, and she spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, her thoughts a hurricane of terror, anger, and sadness.


	11. Dueling Priorities 2: Electric-Snake-A-Loo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halimah, Hermione, and Ron learn about dueling, and make some unexpected new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW TRANSPHOBIA AND ABUSE MENTION
> 
> Sorry it's been so long! Thesis is kicking my ass.   
> Anyway, trying to put some more nuance on Parselmouths and Slytherins, hope it works!

Halimah woke up on Sunday morning after far too little sleep to find the hospital wing blazing with winter sunlight and her arm reboned but very stiff. She sat up quickly and looked over at Colin’s bed, but it had been blocked from view by the high curtains Halimah had changed behind yesterday. Seeing that she was awake, Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began bending and stretching her arm and fingers.

“All in order,” she said as she clumsily fed herself porridge left-handed. “When you’ve finished eating, you may leave. But I want you to let me know  _ immediately _ if you feel any more pain or notice anything strange about it---there is the possibility of odd interaction between the Skele-Gro and Pubesce-Halt potion.”

Halimah nodded and dressed as quickly as she could and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ron and Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren’t there. Halimah left to look for them, wondering where they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that they weren’t interested in whether she had her bones back or not.

As Halimah passed the library, Percy strolled out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time they’d met.

“Oh, hello, Halimah,” he said. “Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken the lead for the House Cup — you earned fifty points!”

“You haven’t seen Ron or Hermione, have you?” said Halimah.

“No, I haven’t,” said Percy, his smile fading. “I hope Ron’s not in another  _ girls’ toilet _ ....”

Halimah raised an eyebrow, “You know that that’s an argument that people use against people like me and George, right?”  
Percy sniffed, “Well, that’s different, isn’t it? You really _are_ a girl, George really _is_ a boy…”

Halimah sighed, “Look, Ron wasn’t doing anything bad! We were just in there to ask Myrtle some questions.”

Percy looked disgruntled, “Be that as it may...still shouldn’t have been near the scene of the crime. People talk. Yes, well. Have a good day, Halimah.”

Halimah watched Percy walk out of sight, and then headed straight for Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She couldn’t see why Ron and Hermione would be in there again, but after making sure that neither Filch nor any prefects were around, she hurried past the foreboding message about the Chamber, opened the door to the bathroom and heard their voices coming from a locked stall.

“It’s me,” she said, closing the door behind her. There was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the stall and she saw Hermione’s eye peering through the keyhole.

“Halimah!” she said. “You gave us such a fright — come in — how’s your arm?”

“Fine,” said Halimah, squeezing into the stall. An old cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Halimah they had lit a fire beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires was a speciality of Hermione’s.

“We’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get started on the Polyjuice Potion,” Ron explained as Halimah, with difficulty, locked the stall again. “We’ve decided this is the safest place to hide it.”

Halimah started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione interrupted.

“We already know — we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That’s why we decided we’d better get going —”

“The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better,” snarled Ron. “D’you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, he took it out on Colin.”

Halimah nodded, her fury and sadness from last night rising again, “It’s sick. Colin...I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

Hermione gave her a sympathetic look, “You were in pain, Halimah. Don’t blame yourself for this.” Halimah nodded reluctantly.

“There’s something else,” she said, watching Hermione tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in the middle of the night.”

Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Halimah told them everything Dobby had told her — or hadn’t told her---and described her increasing disgust with how magical people treated house elves. Hermione and Ron listened with their mouths open.

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Hermione said, “And things used to be even  _ worse _ for house elves?” Her voice shook with rage.

“This settles it,” said Ron in a fierce voice. “Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he’s told dear old Draco how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby’d told you what kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the school.”

“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermione, prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of armor or something — I’ve read about Chameleon Ghouls —”

“When do you have  _ time _ to do all this reading, Hermione?” said Ron, pouring dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and looked at Halimah.

“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke your arm...” He shook his head. “You know what, Halimah? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life he’s going to kill you.”

Halimah played moodily with her messy braid, “That’s what I told him last night. I dunno, he really does seem to want to help me, and I could tell it took all of his strength just to stand up to me to say that he wanted to save me. And his situation...I just, things are bad enough for me at the Dursleys, but I can’t even imagine what he goes through.”

Neither Hermione nor Ron knew what to say to that.

****

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.

Ginny, who sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Halimah felt that Fred and George were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares. Halimah herself tried to talk to Ginny about it, but every time she broached the subject Ginny’s eyes would get wide and she’d start looking around like a caged animal looking for escape. And when Halimah tried to bring up some of her hobbies, like model-making or writing in her diary, she became even more withdrawn.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other second year Gryffindors pointed out that he was in no danger; he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.

“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face fearful. “And everyone knows I’m—I’m almost a Squib.”   
Hermione had looked stricken at that, and they had a long conversation about it, after which Neville seemed a little bit cheered up.

****

In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for the winter holidays. Halimah, Ron, and Hermione signed her list; they had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a confession out of him.

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get them was from Snape’s private stores.

Halimah privately felt she’d rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let Snape catch her robbing his office.

“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape’s office and take what we need.”

Halimah and Ron looked at her nervously.

“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “You two will be expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.”

Ron snorted, “Oh, is that all?”

Halimah smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.

Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Malfoy, who was Snape’s favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron and Halimah, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you could say “Unfair.”

Halimah’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but she had her mind on more important things. She was waiting for Hermione’s signal, and she hardly listened as Snape paused to sneer at her watery potion. When Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville, Hermione caught Halimah’s eye and nodded.

Halimah ducked swiftly down behind her cauldron, pulled one of Fred’s Filibuster fireworks out of her pocket, and gave it a quick prod with her wand. The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing she had only seconds, Halimah straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in Goyle’s cauldron.

Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Halimah saw Hermione slip quietly into Snape’s office.

“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught — when I find out who did this —”

Halimah tried not to laugh as she watched Malfoy hurry forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to Snape’s desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-up lips, Halimah saw Hermione slide back into the dungeon, the front of her robes bulging.

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush. Halimah’s mouth went dry.

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I shall make  _ sure _ that person is expelled.”

Halimah arranged her face into what she hoped was a puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at her and she felt a sudden chill, the hair on the back of her neck sticking up on end. The bell that rang ten minutes later could not have been more welcome.

“He knew it was me,” Halimah told Hermione and Ron as they hurried back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “I could tell.”

Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir feverishly.

“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily.

“Snape can’t prove it was you,” said Ron reassuringly to Halimah. “What can he do?”

“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Halimah as the potion frothed and bubbled.

Hermione cleared her throat and stared fixedly at the cauldron.

“What?” asked Halimah suspiciously, “Is there someway that Snape  _ could _ figure it out?”

Hermione glanced quickly at her and shrugged, “Well, I don’t know exactly, but I’ve read—oh shut  _ up _ , Ron—that there are some pretty strong ways to get into someone’s mind. There’s Legilimency, which is essentially using magic to allow yourself to look into someone’s thoughts and memories, but that’s incredibly difficult. But there’s Veritaserum, as well, which is supposedly the most powerful truth potion in the world. I bet Snape could make that.”

Hermione caught the look on Halimah’s face and tried to smile reassuringly, “But I’m sure he would never try to dose you with that! It’s strictly regulated, and Dumbledore surely wouldn’t let him use it on a student.”

This reassured Halimah not at all. She wasn’t sure what Snape  _ or _ Dumbledore were capable of.

****

A week later, Halimah, Hermione, and Ron were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited.

“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days...”

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest.

“Could be useful,” he said to Halimah and Hermione as they went into dinner. “Shall we go?”

Halimah (who had almost gotten into a “duel” last year, and was still intrigued by the concept) and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o’clock that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young — maybe it’ll be him.”

“As long as it’s not —” Halimah began, but she ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron glanced at each other miserably.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron muttered in Halimah’s ear, and both she and Hermione giggled.

“Or maybe he’ll be so messed up by Snape that we have to get a new Defense teacher for the rest of the year and actually learn something,” Hermione snickered.

Snape’s upper lip was curling. Halimah wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at  _ her _ like that she’d have been running as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Halimah murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.

“One — two — three —”

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: “ _ Expelliarmus _ !” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Justin Flinch-Fletchley was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s all right?” he said, concerned.

“Who cares?” said Halimah, Hermione, and Ron together. Justin gave Halimah a frightened look and she remembered her earlier encounter with him. She tried to smile so as to reassure him, but he just shuddered and moved to the other side of Hannah Abbott.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown — yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me —”

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Halimah and Ron first.

“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he sneered. “Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter —”

Halimah moved automatically toward Hermione.

“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger — you can partner Miss Bulstrode.”

Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a Slytherin girl with constantly shifting eyes and wiry frame that seemed constantly tensed. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her hand clutched her wand very tightly. Hermione gave her a weak smile that she did not return.

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”

Halimah and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents — only to disarm them — we don’t want any accidents — one...two...three —”

Halimah swung her wand high, but Malfoy had already started on “two”: His spell hit Halimah so hard she felt as though she’d been hit over the head with a saucepan. She stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Halimah pointed her wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “ _ Rictusempra _ !”

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing.

“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his knees; Halimah had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. Halimah hung back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Malfoy while he was on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand at Halimah’s knees, choked, “ _ Tarantallegra _ !” and the next second Halimah’s legs began to jerk around out of her control in a kind of quickstep.

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge.

“ _ Finite Incantatem _ !” he shouted; Halimah’s feet stopped dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor.

Halimah leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot stronger than she was. After a few seconds, though, she shook her head, gave Halimah a furtive glance, and released Hermione, who coughed and backed away quickly.

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan...Careful there, Miss Fawcett...Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair — Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you —”

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and Potter?” said Snape with a twisted smile.

“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Halimah and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

“Now, Halimah,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.”

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops — my wand is a little overexcited —”

Halimah suppressed a groan.

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Halimah looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”

“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.

“You wish,” said Halimah out of the corner of her mouth. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. Lockhart cuffed Halimah merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Halimah!”

“What, drop my wand?” Halimah said, before she could stop herself.

But Lockhart wasn’t listening. 

“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted.

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “ _ Serpensortia _ !”

The end of his wand exploded. Halimah watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Halimah standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it...”

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Halimah wasn’t sure what made her do it. She wasn’t even aware of deciding to do it. All she knew was that her legs were carrying her forward as though she was on casters and that she had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously — inexplicably — the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Halimah. Halimah felt the fear drain out of her. She knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how she knew it, she couldn’t have explained.

She looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful — but certainly not angry and scared.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and before Halimah could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Halimah in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, but mixed with something she thought she’d seen before: sadness and longing. Halimah didn’t like it one bit. She was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then she felt a tugging on the back of her robes.

“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in her ear. “Move — come  _ on _ —”

As Ron steered her out of the hall, Hermione hurrying alongside

Them, Halimah caught sight of many other scared and angry faces, and the muttering increased with every second. She caught sight of Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini as she passed them, and almost tripped: they looked shocked as well, but also...concerned? Empathetic? But it couldn’t be, Halimah knew all of the Slytherins hated her. As she, Hermione, and Ron went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something.

Halimah didn’t have a clue what was going on, and neither Ron nor Hermione explained anything until they had dragged her all the way up to an empty classroom on the third floor. Then Ron pushed Halimah into a chair and said in a tight voice, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’m a what?” said Halimah.

“A  _ Parselmouth _ !” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”

“I know,” said Halimah. “I mean, that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo once — long story — but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to — that was before I knew I was a witch —”

“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeated faintly.

“So?” said Halimah. “I bet loads of people here can do it.”

“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common gift. Halimah, this is bad.”

“What’s bad?” said Halimah, starting to feel quite angry. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justin —”

“They don’t know that’s what you told it, Potter.” A bored voice came from behind them.

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron all whirled around. Standing in the doorway were Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode, their arms crossed, and regarding the three Gryffindors with both wariness and mild contempt. Hermione flinched away from the taller Slytherin girl.

“Excuse me?” Halimah snapped, “What, come to gloat? Get out of it. C’mon, let’s go to the Common Room.”

She moved towards the door but the two Slytherins entered and shut the door behind them.

“Get out of the way!” Ron snarled, clenching his fists.

“We’re not here to make trouble, Potter,” Millicent Bulstrode said.

“Yeah, we just never thought there was another one of us at Hogwarts. Much less a  _ Gryffindor _ .” Blaise Zabini said, looking Halimah up and down.

That stopped all three of them.

“I---what? You---your’re both Parselmouths, too?” Hermione looked stunned, “But what are the odds? I thought the rates of its occurrence were much, much lower…”

“Yeah, well, they’re not, Granger,” Millicent Bulstrode said haughtily, “There are loads more of us than most people think, we just don’t like to blab about it. Or, you know,  _ speak to snakes in front of a whole hall full of people _ .” She glared at Halimah.

Halimah took a few seconds to recuperate, “Wait, I don’t get it---you didn’t hear me telling the snake to back off?”

“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron. “Snake language. You could have been saying anything — no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded like you were egging the snake on or something — it was creepy, you know —”

Blaise Zabini rolled his eyes, “It’s not that creepy, Weasley, and it doesn’t mean Potter here is, what were you thinking? A secret dark witch? She’s just got a weird skill, is all.”

Halimah blinked. None of the Slytherins she’d interacted with had ever gendered her correctly. Cautiously, she decided to trust the two, for the moment.

“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize — how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it?”

Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were looking as though someone had died, despite what Zabini and Bulstrode had just said. Halimah still couldn’t see what was so terrible to them.

“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a massive snake biting off Justin’s head?” she said. “What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”

Before either Zabini or Bulstrode could say anything, Hermione cut in.

“It matters,” she said, speaking in a rush, “because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”

Halimah’s mouth fell open and she looked between Ron, Hermione, Zabini, and Bulstrode.

“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-granddaughter or something —”

“But I’m not,” said Halimah, with a panic she couldn’t quite explain.

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”

Zabini and Bulstrode, who had remained quiet throughout this, exchanged eye-rolls.

“Weasley, Granger, you’re both full of crap, y’know that?” Bulstrode sneered, beginning to pace, “Yeah, Slytherin was a Parselmouth, but big whoop! He was a shit guy, that part’s correct, but the whole connection between Parselmouths and the Dark Arts is just made up.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Zabini cut her off, “Look, my mum was in Gryffindor, and she’s also a Parselmouth. So was my grandma, and one of my cousins, and they were both in Ravenclaw!”  
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t Dark, too,” muttered Ron and Zabini gave him a withering look.

“No, of course it doesn’t. But that also means that not every Slytherin is  _ either _ , Weasley. We’re not stupid, we know our reputation, and yeah, shits like Malfoy don’t make it easy to  _ shake _ that reputation, but we’re not all Dark sorcerers waiting to happen. You should try being in Slytherin when you’re like us. Neither of exactly fits the ideal pureblood image, you know? But whatever. Millicent and I, we’re Parselmouths. So’s Potter. Now, I don’t know about you, but I  _ really _ don’t think she’s gonna end up on the Dark side, do you?”

Halimah, Hermione, and Ron stared at Zabini, who was breathing very heavily. Bulstrode patted him on the back.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said in a small voice, “You’re right. I’d never stopped to---well, I’d just never really considered that.”

Zabini nodded and Bulstrode sniffed. Ron shuffled his feet.

“Yeah, sure,” he said gruffly, “I guess you don’t seem so bad.”

“A winning concession,” Bulstrode said, rolling her eyes again.

Halimah turned to Zabini, “So you both could understand me, when I...did said that stuff to the snake?”

“Yep,” Zabini said, “I almost said something myself. It’s hard to keep it in check around live snakes. It’s almost like you feel compelled to talk to them. Don’t worry though, that’s normal. You’re not Dark, and neither are we.”

There was an awkward silence as the five of them tried to see what to do now. Halimah looked around the room, trying to process everything. She saw Zabini and Bulstrode exchange another glance, this time with worry.

“What’s up?” she asked them, cocking her head, “What aren’t you saying?”

“It’s just...well, this is going to sound absurd…” Bulstrode began, before trailing off and frowning.

“Have you heard any voices that no one else did?” Zabini blurted out, then looked ashamed that he hadn’t kept it to himself.

Halimah exchanged a look with Ron and Hermione, and dawning horror rose on all of their faces. Halimah’s mouth went dry.

“Um, yeah, actually,” Halimah said quietly, “Two times now.”

Bulstrode closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, and Zabini sat down at a desk heavily.

“Shit,” he said.

Hermione was the first one to put the pieces together, “You don’t think...that there’s a snake...”

“Somehow, there’s a snake involved in these attacks,” Bulstrode said simply.

“I thought that I was imagining it,” Halimah said heavily, sitting next to Zabini.

“Honestly, so did we,” he said grimly, “Still kind of do, to be honest. We tried to track it, after that Creevey kid was attacked, but no luck yet.”

Halimah looked at Hermione, who arched her eye-brow and nodded. Halimah cleared her throat.

“Do you have any idea...well, any idea who might be behind this? If a snake is involved…”

“I don’t know of any other Parselmouths in the school right now,” Bulstrode said, “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Didn’t know about Potter until tonight, who’s to say there’s not another person out there?”

Halimah nodded, then steeled herself, “We think it might be Malfoy.”

Ron looked aghast that she would reveal this information, but Hermione was watching the two Slytherins carefully, gauging their reaction to Halimah’s revelation. Bulstrode snorted, and Zabini shook his head ruefully.

“Look, I know you all hate him, and I’m right there with you, but...I don’t know.” Zabini sounded highly skeptical.

“He’s a prick, no doubt about it, but, the  _ Heir of Slytherin _ ?” Bulstrode laughed humorlessly, “Mind you, he’s been throwing around the M-word a lot more, lately.”

Ron, who had seemed to accept that they were now trusting the two Slytherins with their investigation, nodded his head, “That’s what we thought. And we learned that the Chamber has been opened previously, so maybe his dad…”

Zabini still looked unbelieving, but Bulstrode was nodding her head, “Maybe, maybe.”

Halimah pushed forward, “Look, I don’t know what you both are planning to do, other than track down the snake, but we have a plan. Well, Hermione does, anyway.” 

Hermione looked nervous, but nodded, “We’re making Polyjuice Potion.”

Bulstrode looked blank, but Zabini looked impressed, “Wow. But why---?” Understanding dawned on him, “You’ve got to be joking, Granger.”

Hermione looked defiant, “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’ve got any better ideas!”

Zabini shrugged, “You’re not wrong. But seriously? Polyjuice? To what, turn into three Slytherins and try to wheedle a confession out of Malfoy?”

“I mean, he blabs his head off all of the time in the Common Room,” Bulstrode said thoughtfully, “If you managed to get him talking about it, it might work. I’d be surprised if he managed to keep it a secret this long, though.”

Halimah shook her head, “It’s the best plan we’ve got. If you want to help, we’re finishing the potion and taking it over the holidays at some point.” 

Hermione interjected, “And if you do, it might be easier for us to get some hairs or something from other Slytherins that Malfoy might listen to. That is, if you’re comfortable…”

Both Zabini and Bulstrode laughed.

“Oh, there are some other jerks like him we could grab hairs from,” Bulstrode snickered, “It’d be my pleasure.”

They spent the next hour planning. Halimah, Hermione, and Ron filled the two Slytherins in on the potion, Myrtle’s bathroom, and what Halimah had learned from Dobby, and the Slytherins let them in on some important dynamics present in their house, and about their Common Room. Throughout it all, Halimah marveled that, despite how much she’d previously hated all of Slytherin house, she felt that she could trust these two, and they felt that they could trust her. At several points, when discussing the bigotry on display in the Slytherin Common Room, she saw flickers of anger and pain in both Zabini’s and Bulstrode’s faces, and knew that they’d endured some pain or other from their fellow House members. She thought about asking, but resolved to do so later.  
They left in higher spirits than they’d had when leaving the Dueling Club, and as they exited the classroom, Bulstrode coughed and said, “Oh, and Granger? Sorry for tackling you like that, er, back in the Hall. I can get...carried away.”

Hermione smiled wanly, “Oh, it’s, um, okay. Now. Now I know about you and Zabini. And I’m sorry if I ever, if any of us ever were rude to you.”

Zabini waved it away, “Don’t worry about it. Slytherins and Gryffindors, right? And if you promise to never call me Zabini again, I’ll promise to call you by your first name, too. All of you. Malfoy is Malfoy, sure, but we’re Blaise and Millicent, got it?”

Ron and Halimah laughed and they shook on it.

****

Halimah lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around her four-poster she watched snow starting to drift past the tower window and wondered at all that had happened that day. The revelation about the rarity of Parselmouths was big enough, but she felt that her whole world had shifted, now that she knew that there were at least some Slytherins would neither mock her nor try to hurt her. She could  _ trust _ them, she was sure of it. 

Still, despite what Blaise and Millicent had told her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her abilities as a Parselmouth were tainted, awful.  _ Could _ it be possible that she was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? She didn’t really know anything about her father’s family, after all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions about her wizarding relatives.

Quietly, Halimah tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words wouldn’t come. It seemed she had to be face-to-face with a snake to do it.

_ But I’m in Gryffindor, too _ , Halimah thought.  _ The Sorting Hat wouldn’t _

_ have put me in here if I had Slytherin’s blood _ …

_ Ah _ , said a little voice in her brain,  _ but the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you remember? _

_ Maybe so,  _ she reasoned with herself,  _ But if Blaise and Millicent are anything to go by, maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst possible thing, like I used to think.  _ She was still sure that people like Malfoy would’ve made her life miserable, had she been in Slytherin, but the fact was, she had dealt with the suspicion and shunning from the rest of her own house before, in any case, and had lived through it just fine. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. It was a lot to contemplate.

Halimah turned over. She’d see Justin the next day in Herbology and she’d explain that she’d been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (she thought angrily, pummeling her pillow) any fool should have realized.

****

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.

Halimah fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.

“For heaven’s sake, Halimah,” said Hermione, exasperated, as one of Ron’s bishops wrestled her knight off its horse and dragged it off the board. “Go and _ find  _ Justin if it’s so important to you. And maybe talk to Blaise or Millicent to see how they might handle it.”

So Halimah got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justin, or Blaise, or Millicent might be.

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Halimah walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look, Halimah walked on by, thinking that Justin might be using his free time to catch up on some work, and deciding to check the library first.

A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn’t seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Halimah could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. She couldn’t see Justin among them. Blaise and Millicent weren’t here, either, and she was about to turn away and check the Great Hall when something of what the Hufflepuffs were saying met her ears, and she paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.

“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s marked him down as his---er,  _ her _ \---next victim, it’s best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told her he’d been down for Eton. That’s not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s heir on the loose, is it?”

“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said Hannah Abbott anxiously.

“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “she’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark sorcerer. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.”

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, “Remember what was written on the wall?  _ Enemies of the Heir, Beware _ . Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch’s cat’s attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of her while she was lying in the mud. Next thing we know — Creevey’s been attacked.”

Halimah gritted her teeth. Her friends had been right, magical people  _ really _ hated Parselmouths.

“She always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah uncertainly, “and, well, she’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. She can’t be all bad, can she?”

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Halimah edged nearer so that she could catch Ernie’s words.

“No one knows how she survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, she was only a baby when it happened. She should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark witch could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill her in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter’s been hiding?”

Halimah couldn’t take anymore. Clearing her throat loudly, she stepped out from behind the bookshelves. If she hadn’t been feeling so angry, she would have found the sight that greeted her funny: Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of her, and the color was draining out of Ernie’s face.

“Hello,” said Halimah mulishly. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie.

“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a quavering voice.

“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club,” said Halimah.

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what happened.”

“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said Halimah irritably.

“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.”

“I didn’t chase it at him!” Halimah said, his voice shaking with anger. “It didn’t even  _ touch _ him!”

“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s, so —”

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Halimah fiercely. This was unbelievable. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”

“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said Ernie swiftly.

“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them,” said Halimah, laughing hollowly. “I’d like to see you try it. They force me to clean, they kept me in a cupboard for 10 goddamn years, Macmillan. I have  _ every _ reason to hate them. But my  _ best friend _ is Muggle-born and if you think I would hurt Hermione, then I don’t know what to tell you. Get stuffed.”

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the library, earning herself a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook.

Halimah blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where she was going, she was in such a fury. The result was that she walked into something very large and solid, which knocked her backward onto the floor.

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Halimah said, looking up.

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

“All righ’, Halimah?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”

“Canceled,” said Halimah, getting up. “What’re you doing in here?”

Hagrid held up the limp rooster.

“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.”

He peered more closely at Halimah from under his thick, snow-flecked eyebrows.

“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’ bothered —”

Halimah couldn’t bring herself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about her.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s Transfiguration next and I’ve got to pick up my books.”

She walked off, her mind still full of what Ernie had said about her.

_ “Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born...” _

Halimah stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. She was halfway down the passage when she tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.

She turned to squint at what she’d fallen over and felt as though her stomach had dissolved.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Halimah had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin’s.

Halimah got to her feet, her breathing fast and shallow, her heart doing a kind of drumroll against her ribs. She looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either side.

She could run, and no one would ever know she had been there. But she couldn’t just leave them lying here...She had to get help...Would anyone believe she hadn’t had anything to do with this?

As she stood there, panicking, a door right next to her opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

“Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking Halimah’s glasses askew as he bounced past her. “What’s Potter up to? Why’s Potter lurking —”

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, before Halimah could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and Halimah tried to protect his body from the many pounding feet. People kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick, but there was little she could do about that. Halimah eventually found herself pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her own class, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped hair. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

“ _ Caught in the act _ !” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger dramatically at Halimah.

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply.

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

_ “Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done, _

_ You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun —” _

“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Halimah.

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left Halimah and Professor McGonagall alone together.

“This way, Potter,” she said shortly.

“Professor,” said Halimah desperately, “I swear I didn’t —”

“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly, her mouth thin.

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.

“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind it split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Halimah couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As she and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Halimah heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Halimah saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

She knew now where she was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.


End file.
